


BLOOD FEATHERS

by Mikkeneko



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Discussion of Past Abuse, Gen, Griffon AU, Griffon Hawke, M/M, Scars, Second Blight AU, a boy and his griffon, a whole host of cameos, anders loves every griffon, canon-typical depiction of slavery, every griffon loves anders, griffon tactics, shy courtship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8585647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: In the sixty-fourth year of the Second Blight, the Darkspawn threaten to overrun the world. All that stand in their way are the Grey Wardens and their flight of griffons, as well as the loyal riders that bond with them. But the life of a griffon rider isn't all guts and glory; there's a lot of hard work that goes into it. Anders, the Master of Griffons, cares more about these noble beasts than anyone or anything else in the world -- except, perhaps, for their scarred and surly rider...





	1. Vyrantium

**Author's Note:**

> Art for this entry was done by **[thepioden!](https://thepioden.tumblr.com/post/153334065334)**

 

The market reeked. 

It was high summer, in the sixty-fourth year of the Blight, and the sun beating down on the Vyrantium flagstones raised waves of heat that caught and magnified the normal stench of city living. Excrement, both animal and human -- horse and dog droppings in the street, chamber pots emptied out of windows into gutters, the sweat and blood of the mass bodies of people mingled with the effluence of industry: tanners airing rotting leather and bleach, hot metal and brimstone from the forges, farmers and fishmongers trying to hock their fragrant wares faster than the heat could rot them. And over it all -- as in every city in Tevinter -- the tang of blood. 

Mhairi had no idea how Duncan could stand it. She was suffering from the stench, and it was worse the further they pushed through the markets, yet Duncan seemed oblivious to any malaise. Perhaps years of fighting Darkspawn had inured him to merely human scents. If so, Mhairi wasn't sure whether that was something to look forward to. 

It didn't look like they were going to get away in a hurry, either. Their party moved slowly -- a train of pack mules weighed down heavily with baggage made slow going through the heavy crowd. Most of the other market-goers didn't bother with mules; Mhairi scowled at the sight of a train of ragged elves and scruffy humans following an elaborately-robed man across the flagstones, each one staggering under a crushing weight.

"This place is a pit," she muttered, and Duncan chuckled.

"Wait until you get your first deployment into the Trench," he said dryly. "That's when you'll learn about pits."

Mhairi shook her head, glaring around at the city streets in their blackened, sharp-edged grandeur. All of it built on the backs of slave labor, to support indolent lifestyles of waste. "We ought to let the Blight roll over the rest of this Maker-forsaken country."

Duncan's chuckle died, and he sent a sharp glower her way. "That's not what the Wardens are, Recruit," he said severely. "We are sworn to defend all the kingdoms of men from the darkspawn menace. It is not our place to look at them and decide in the Maker's place which of them are worthy of defending." 

Mhairi frowned, but didn't argue; Duncan was still her commanding officer, and it wasn't her place. Even if -- as everyone knew -- the Blight that ravaged the land was all the fault of the Tevinters in the first place, anyway. Everyone knew that their hubris and greed had pierced the Golden City, offending the Maker so greatly that he punished mankind with the Blight, endless ravages of diseased monsters to devour and destroy all that man had built. It would serve them right if the Grey Wardens stood aside and let the Blight have them all. 

But still the Wardens fought, as they had for more than six decades onwards, struggling to stem the tide of the Blight and stand as a bulwark against the darkspawn armies. And even Wardens must eat, and repair their weapons, and a hundred other things from day to day; and so they needed supplies, tithes from the lands they shielded. Tevinter paid their dues as well, if more grudgingly, than any other kingdom. Mhairi knew enough of strategy and logistics to know that the mundane cargo of vegetables and rice they were hauling back to Griffon Wing Keep was as critical for their success as any number of enchanted swords. 

The Commander halted now, reining his horse in as they reached an intersection. He hefted his purse in his hand, and seemed pleased by the jangling of metal. "I got a good deal from those old skinflints today," he said. "There's still a good bit of coin left over. Let's see, how can I best spend it to benefit the Order today?" 

"You shouldn't have needed to pay them anything at all," Mhairi grumbled. In theory, the supplies were supposed to be free, tithes given to the Wardens in return for their protection. Mhairi had been puzzled at first by the heavy purse Duncan had brought along, until she saw him at work with the millers and quartermasters: in order to keep the goods flowing freely, certain bribes had to be paid to the right people at the right points in the chain of command. Just more evidence of how deeply the corruption had worked its way into this land, she thought in disgust. 

Duncan paid little mind to her grumbling. He glanced around the market, taking in the wares at every stall. "Ah, I know," he said, and turned his horse down a nearby alley. Mhairi followed, leading the mules. 

The sharp-chiseled stone walls loomed even closer together overhead as they left the wide-open emporium for a cramped, crowded flea market. The flies grew thicker, and Mhairi had to cover her nose against a thick wave of stench blown into her face by a hot breeze. 

They pushed through the crowd until they rounded another corner and found themselves in a large stall. Two of the walls were lined with stalls and cages, and the space between them bore a pair of solid stone blocks. Sweeping the ground in front of the blocks was a tall, meaty woman with a shaven head and a blocky tattoo covering half her face. 

Duncan stepped forward, and the bulky woman looked up and set her hands on her hips. "Oi, you Warden!" she called out, and gestured behind her at the row of stalls. "Come back to pick up some more meat?" 

With a shock, Mhairi realized that the stalls were not empty; they were full of people. Some of them stood, some of them slumped against the bars, and some huddled or lay listlessly on the ground. "Commander!" Mhairi protested. "This place is…" 

"Part of the slave markets. Yes, I know," Duncan said, unperturbed. "I always visit here when I'm in the city, to see if there are any promising recruits I can pick up for the Wardens." 

"That's right, chickie," the big woman said. She grinned, a horrible leer that showed several broken-off teeth. "Lothera's Refurbished Goods, you won't find a deeper discount anywhere in Vyrantium. Assuming, of course, that you don't mind other people's leftovers." 

"Leftovers?" Mhairi felt almost faint. 

"I get my goods cheap," Lothera said proudly. "Pick 'em up from dark alleys, off midden heaps, up from under the docks -- even from the morgue sometimes! You'd be surprised how many magisters make that mistake, dumping 'em off when they're only mostly dead. Clean 'em up, chuck a bit o' food and drink down their gullet, and put 'em on display. I get 'em cheap, so any sale I make is a profit, too." 

"That's vile!" Mhairi said, feelingly. 

Lothera shrugged, unbothered by Mhairi's evident contempt. "No skin off my nose if you don't want to make a sale," she said. "There's always a taker -- if not grubs for the army, then blood for the wards up on the city walls. At the end of the day, we all bleed for the glory of Tevinter." 

Mhairi shook her head, bereft of words. Through the whole exchange, Duncan had been walking along the row, looking carefully at the slaves penned in the cages. A few he only glanced at before moving on; others he stopped and studied them intently. At one such, he stood up straight and called out "Lothera, a moment." 

The slaver dropped Mhairi from her attention and bustled over to Duncan's side, eager to make a sale. She followed reluctantly, trying to peer around their bodies to see what had caught Duncan's attention. 

The slave in question was hardly recognizable as an elf; half-crouched on the floor of the pen, he resembled nothing so much as a pile of raw meat. His skin was covered with open wounds, long lines that wound up and down his limbs and curled around his joints. A few of them still bled sluggishly, staining the straw below. He shifted slightly, and through the fall of dark hair she momentarily caught his eyes; a dark green, clouded with pain and fever and shot with blood, but those eyes… 

There was a steel in those eyes that all the blood and brutality in the world couldn't break. 

Duncan gestured to the pen, his intent gaze never leaving the elf's face. "What happened to this fellow?" he asked. "Those don't look like any flogging scars I've ever seen. Did he get these in some kind of fight?" 

Lothera guffawed. "That would have been redundant, wunnit?" she said. "He's got a story, that one." 

"They all have stories," Duncan reminded her, and she chuckled. 

"That they do, but this wolf has a good'un! Now, up till a few weeks ago, he was a bodyguard -- the personal guard for Magister Danarius. Not just your run-of-the mill gladiator, oh no! The Magister was a big fan of old Arlathan, and he had his bodyguard done up like one of them fancy old Arcane Warriors. Got pure lyrium tattooed right into his skin, patterns that were supposed to let him fight half-in, half-out of the Fade.

"Well, this elf got in his head to do a runner. They caught up with him, o'course, and that would have been bad enough for him, but when his master caught up with him he tried to fight back! Don't know what you expect, when you go teaching a slave how to fight. After that Danarius was done with him -- but he wasn't going to let him go with a fortune in lyrium still under his skin, oh no! He took it back first -- peeled it right out with magic, so they say -- and went back home with his lyrium, leaving the elf behind to bleed all over creation.

"That's where I came in," Lothera said, thumping her chest with a hollow noise. "Because who just leaves a perfectly handsome elf bleeding out in the gutter like that? One thing I'll tell ya, though; if he lives, he's gonna have one interesting pattern of scars." 

"Yes, I imagine he will," Duncan said. He nodded, coming to a decision. "I'll take him. How much?"

Lothera's eyes gleamed avidly. "How much ya got?" she said. 

"Now, Lothera, you wouldn't try to cheat the Wardens," Duncan said mildly, and Lothera chuckled. 

"I'm just messin' with ya. Thirty silver, as always, and I'll throw in a potion for the road, so that he doesn't up and die before you get ten miles down it. Wouldn't want him to die to anything but darkspawn, yeah?" 

"Done." They shook hands -- how Duncan could bear to touch that stained, filthy paw, Mhairi couldn't imagine -- and coins clinked, the Warden's purse returning to his doublet. The slaver unbarred the pen and reached down, gripping the elf's arm to drag him off the bloodied straw; he looked even smaller against her bulk, and made a few groggy attempts to stand on his own bare feet as he was dragged stumbling onto the street. 

The slaver didn't bother with chains or manacles -- too cheap to part with them, most likely -- and Duncan made a quick assessment of the elf's condition and gestured to Mhairi. "Recruit, help me get him up on the horse," he said. 

"Will he be able to stay in the saddle?" Mhairi said doubtfully, though she slowly moved forward to assist Duncan in trying to manhandle their new acquisition into the saddle. It was hard to find a place to grip him that wasn't sliced with open wounds, and her hands cringed and faltered against the bloodied skin. Duncan's grip was casual and firm, not seeming to notice the sticky smear of blood that was left every time he touched the elf. 

"He's in no condition to walk; and the straps on the war saddle will hold him in place," Duncan said. "It's a long way to go back to Griffon Wing Keep." 

"Commander, what are you doing?" Mhairi hissed, once they were out of earshot of the slave stall. "Buying slaves? This isn't what the Wardens is about!" 

"The Aerials are always shorthanded; you know this," Duncan said reasonably. "Especially with Furiosa's latest clutch of eggs recently hatched. We need more riders."

"You have riders!" Mhairi protested. "There's no lack of solid, promising young men from good Orlesian families who would be honored to join the Aerials." 

Duncan shook his head. "I don't need young men from Orlais," he said. "I need _elves._ You know this. The days when our griffons could carry two men in full armor into battle are past; even one full-grown human is too much for most of them nowadays. It slows them down, they fall to the Darkspawn, and we lose the rider and more crucially, we lose the griffon. Recruitment from the Dales has fallen to an all-time low, but the fighting along the Western Approach is heating up again. I need more elvhen recruits and I need them now; and if I can't get them from the Dales, I'll find them in Tevinter." 

"This is wrong," Mhairi argued under her breath, even as she worked with Duncan to get the half-conscious elf boosted aboard the horse. "You can't just buy a person and… and throw them against the Blight like some kind of ammunition!" 

Duncan didn't answer her at first, taking the time to pull the leather loops and fix the buckles meant to strap an injured soldier into the saddle; it would keep the rider in place even if they passed out from their wounds. Only once the last knot was tied did he turn back to Mhairi, and his eyes were iron-hard in a set face. "Recruit," he said, "We fight daily against a darkness that if left unchecked will swallow this world, and every man, woman, child and slave in it. What is the freedom of any man worth when measured against the life of the entire world? 

"We cannot, by our oath or by conscience, neglect any weapon that can turn to our advantage. To this end we have the Right of Conscription; we can press any man, elf or dwarf into service as a Warden which they have no legal right to refuse, their lives forfeit to our cause. Once conscripted, they are bound to the army and they must obey orders, else face punishment or death. What is the difference, truly, between a conscript and a slave?" 

Mhairi scowled through the Warden's soliloquy; she knew that nothing he had said was untrue, but it still felt wrong. Duncan took his mount's reins in hand and began to walk, leading his horse forward; Mhairi followed, and the mules obligingly fell in along with the train's leaders. "The difference is that a conscript is still a person," Mhairi said at least, after several minutes of road had passed. "Not property. Not a thing." 

"Precisely," Duncan said. "And he will not be property. He will be a recruit, and a Warden of equal standing to any other Warden. I cannot give him his freedom, but I can give him this -- one more chance." 

Doubt still seethed in her heart, but Mhairi kept them to herself; the baggage train moved off again, through the heat and stench and chaos of the city. They passed under the city gates -- huge, looming bulwarks thrown up to halt the spread of the Blight, reinforced with magics fed daily with the blood and sweat of slaves. 

Past the encampments of the ragged Tevinter army, the jagged pattern of trenches and earthworks meant to slow the advance of the encroaching scourge; slow, hinder, but never triumph, not completely. Past the burnt-out fields, the blighted ravines, into the blasted wastes -- empty now of darkspawn only because their work was already done; nothing more could survive there. It was the sixty-fourth year of the Blight and there seemed no reason it should ever end.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fire. Fire fills the sky from horizon to horizon, beating down on his head in waves. Sweat trickles down, or perhaps blood; either way it hurts the same. Razor wires of pain wrap around his body from his legs on upwards, and pulse pain with every heartbeat; rivers of sweat-blood running endlessly down his chest, down his legs. 

After an endless time the fire dies, and is replaced by a freezing cold. The cold crawls into him, throbs at every line… no, there are no more lines, they were all ripped away. Ripped out with his blood still dripping from them, shreds of flesh still hanging from them, again and again without end. What's left of him? 

He will not die.

Fire, then cold, then fire, then cold. Pain pulses and sweat drips. Everything hurts, but he is still alive. He is still alive.

Flashes of faces, snatches of sound. Familiar? He isn't sure. He thinks he hears Shokrakaar, but she's dead. Isn't she? Is he so close to death that he is seeing into the world beyond? 

He doesn't want to die. 

When the fire dies but before the cold envelops him, the churning, lurching world stops and hands lower him to the ground. Water is poured in his mouth, and he grabs at it, gulps at it; food is pressed in his hand and he grips it with all his tenuous strength. It's hard, it hurts to eat; chewing is like a mouthful of glass shards, drinking is like swallowing fire. But he swallows anyway, because he must eat and drink if he wants to live. 

He wants to live.

Fire, then cold. Fire, then cold. A burning sun in an endless stretching sky, light reflecting off pale barren ground. Cold darkness, lit only by a campfire. The lowing of livestock, beasts of burden, the muttering of human voices. They are not speaking Tevene, and he can't remember any of the Dwarvish tongue right now. But they push food and water in his hands and he eats. 

Are these his new masters? Human men and women in dark brigandine and chain, bearing weapons that reek of blood and worse. He doesn't remember being sold. He doesn't remember anything after Danarius' magic set its claws in his flesh and ripped, tore, shredded. But he is not where he was; they are not in the city, and he knows none of the faces or voices that make up his new world. 

He has been sold, then. He doesn't know why, or who his new masters are, or what they want from him. But he will watch, and he will listen, and he will learn. He will learn their moods and their whimsies and their wants and their weaknesses, and he will do what he's told, he will do what he must to survive. 

He doesn't want to die. 

He wants to live. 

 

* * *

  

By the time they cleared the ridge of the mountains his fever had broken, at least enough to let him see clearly again, although his head still swam and noises of the sea roared up in his ears if he tilted his head to the side. They had him riding, perched like a child's toy atop a mountain of a war steed, which puzzled him. But perhaps they recognized that if he were made to walk, as a slave properly ought, the climb up this breath-stealing ridge would have killed him. 

He would neither questions his new masters, nor thank them. 

The baggage train heaved up and over the ridge and began down the switchback trail on the other side, a fractured black slope of rock and gravel. The basin ahead opened itself up to Fenris' eyes for the first time, and the view was breathtaking.

From here they could see clear across the basin to the other side, where the horizon disappeared into a jagged wound in the earth. Looming at the edge of the canyon, its bulk massive and daunting even from this distance, was a fortress; the land around it was cut with moats and trenches. Tiny figures crawled across the land in the distance; be they men or monsters, he could not make out from here, as the harsh light still made his eyes swim. 

But it seemed they were not headed for the fortress today: once they made it to the basin floor they turned aside, instead, and made towards the edge of the canyon further north. The plain was overgrown with grass -- in places it grew so long as to brush his feet as he rode. In other places banks of grass lay withered, fading as quickly as it grew. Perhaps it knew that in the face of the end of all things, one season of life was all it would get to have.

Their destination seemed to be a smaller fortress, set further back from the gorge; it had an oddly disjointed, sprawling design as though thrown together haphazardly from whatever buildings were at hand. It was at once flatter and more widely spaced, but with an truly inordinate number of towers; Fenris could not make heads nor tails of the design. 

On their way in to the uneven-looking fortress they began to pass through herds of livestock: bawling druffalo, gangly-limbed rams, even pungent colonies of nugs. Although they were largely left to run free, browsing on the grass or the shrub that grew on the rocky hillsides, they had obviously been cultivated for a purpose. He wondered if tending to these herds of animals would be his new task in this place. Quite a comedown from once having been a magister's prize bodyguard, but better to be mucking out the pigs than to be fed to them. 

The caravan crossed a wooden drawbridge that creaked over deep, dry ravines, and through a portcullis wide enough to admit five horses abreast. Inside the courtyard, the beasts of burden were pulled aside for unloading. Fenris hesitated, unsure whether he should begin his labors here, but the warrior -- Duncan -- beckoned him onwards, and he followed. 

Duncan was accosted several times on his journey through the keep by underlings with questions or problems for him to resolve; most of the details washed over him as the Wardens spoke to each other in rapid-fire Dwarvish, too fast for his still-swimming head to follow. 

After several interruptions they reached a large kitchen, full of noise and clatter and the hot smell of overcooked oil. Fenris looked around the room with intent interest, sure that this was to be his new home. Was he to be a kitchen scullion, then? It was not the worst of fates; at least then he would not be starved. 

"Another of your strays, Duncan?" a voice cut into the haze of his thoughts, this one speaking Tevene; he looked over to see a red-haired elf, middle-aged, looking at him with a scowl and her hands on her hips. "We're full up on kitchen staff; we don't need any more. Maker! What a mess he looks." 

Duncan shook his head. "He's not for the kitchens, Orana," he said, which was more than anyone had bothered to tell Fenris. "He's for the --" 

The last word was one that eluded Fenris' ears, although he strained to hear it. Whatever it was, the cook -- Orana looked faintly surprised, and also looked at him with a tinge of pity. Fenris kept his eyes resolutely on the floor. 

"Give him a good meal, take him to see the healers, and then bring him down to the -- chamber," Duncan said; again that unfamiliar word. With that he left, and Fenris couldn't help a twinge of regret at seeing the only semi-familiar face disappear through the doorway. 

Orana didn't bother to talk to him, which didn't surprise Fenris; even slaves had their own hierarchy, and the head of the kitchens was far above any lowly newcomer. But she was not unkind, pulling him to a corner and setting him there with a plate of stew and bread, which he dutifully ate. 

She then led him to another part of the fortress and left him in the care a silver-haired elderly human lady. She undressed him, looked him over, clucked at the mass of open wounds on his skin, and prattled on in a language he didn't know at all; Ciriane, if he had to guess, which had very few speakers in Tevinter. He did his best to guess and follow her instructions so that she would not grow angry at his slowness. Was this the chamber to which Duncan had ordered him taken? Was he to be an assistant to the infirmary, then? How was he to carry out duties in a language he did not understand? 

No one had been cruel to him -- so far -- but he was growing increasingly confused and distressed as to what his place was to be in this new fortress. His safety, his very survival depended on being able to obey orders and carry out duties well -- yet how could he do that if no one would tell him what his duties _were?_ He was anxious and half-sick with guessing, second-guessing, trying to interpret every little nuance of those around him. If he could not get it right, could not find his place… 

Duties were safety. Value was survival. Those slaves that could not be useful always had a place: as fuel, for the ever-hungry wards atop the city wall. These were Wardens, locked in eternal battle against darkspawn; he did not doubt that their wards were just as hungry. Surely they would not have dragged him all the way from Tevinter just for his blood? 

The healer applied a salve to his wounds, briskly but not roughly, though the salve itself stung and ached in the cuts. He couldn't help but cringe from her touch, which made her lips purse, but offered no other resistance. 

Once he was dressed again -- more in bandages than in the tattered clothes he'd worn on his journey from the North -- another page in blue and silver stuck their head in the infirmary and inquired of the healer in Ciriane. She looked him over from head to toe -- the same look of pity in her face that he'd seen on Orana -- before answering in the same language. 

He did not understand the words, but he grasped the intention, and when the page beckoned him to follow, he went. 

Down a long corridor and several flights of stairs, the air became cooler, damper despite the desert clime. Fenris suspected they were underground; at any rate there were no windows. The page left him at the end of a long line of others, waiting in what looked like a long narrow receiving chamber with a low ceiling. Fenris kept his head turned submissively downwards, even as his eyes flickered up to take in the rest of the chamber's occupants. 

Most were men, being both human and being male. He caught sight of Mhairi, the human girl who'd accompanied him back from Tevinter, and she smiled tentatively at him and raised her fist in a gesture of victory. He looked away. The only other elf in the crowd was a brown-skinned female with dark brown hair -- he would have taken her for another slave, except that she clutched a staff in her hands. No mage was a slave, not even an elf. No elves of the Dales, with their distinctive facial tattoos. No other elves of Tevinter. 

The chamber's occupants chattered among themselves, but their tones were hushed and nervous. Fenris listened as best he could, and caught a wide scattering of different languages: Ander, Ciriane, Alamarri, and Dwarvish. No Tevene. From what he was able to make out of the chatter, they were anticipating something -- some ritual -- but most of them were actively wondering what it would be, no more informed than him. 

At last the waiting ended, when a heavy, iron-strapped door at the far end opened. Duncan came out, his brow heavy and face grave, dressed in the most formal Warden uniform. Two other Wardens came in behind him, carrying what looked like a heavy, rectangular… cauldron? Trench? It was full of a dark liquid which sloshed slowly and heavily, not quite like water or even blood, and reflected no light.

Duncan stood in the center of the room and surveyed the crowd with a somber expression. He addressed all of them, speaking a few, simple words of Dwarvish. "Brothers and sisters," he said, "you know why we are here." 

 _I don't,_ Fenris thought, but he never would have been so insolent as to say so aloud. Duncan kept speaking. 

"From this point forth, you may not leave, save by completing the ritual. May the Maker in his mercy spare you; may Andraste in her grace intercede for you. May the Father of Mountains and the Mother of Skies strengthen you; may the Creators and their works protect you." 

It was the most bizarre, eclectic mix of blessings that Fenris had ever heard, and something about it made the hairs stand up on his spine. Some undertone of desperation, as though the speaker of the prayer were reaching out to every deity they knew of in hopes of gaining assistance from any at all. 

Duncan picked up what looked like a ladle, made of some corroded gold-colored metal, and dipped it into the trench. Stepping forward, he held it up to the first recruit in the line, and he drank. 

Moments later the recruit began to choke, dropping to his knees as dark lines began to creep up through his face, his eyes turning white. He slumped to his knees with a groan, twitching faintly, but Duncan had already dipped again and moved on to the next recruit in line. 

He went down the line one by one, inducing the black liquid to each recruit, who twitched and seized and fell unconscious. Mhairi was the fourth such in line, and she stepped forward bravely enough and took the vessel in her own hands to drink. But when she fell, the black veins blazing against grey skin, she neither twitched nor breathed again. 

Some of the recruits cried out in horror. One tried to run for the door, only to discover the two burly Wardens waiting on either side, their swords drawn. Fenris had seen worse, many times before, in the everyday rituals of Tevinter. No matter where he went, it seemed, men were all the same. 

Duncan kept on moving down the line with that same steady, implacable pace. The dark-haired elf was next, her face ghostly grey under her skin, but she did not fight him when he lifted the ladle to her lips. "Andraste watch over you, Fiona," he heard Duncan murmur, as he was now only a few feet away. 

He was glad to see that she still moved after slumping to the ground. 

At last he came to Fenris. Eyes still on the ground, he had a clear view of the bodies, moving and unmoving; a clear view of a pool of blood that snaked over from the door. Duncan stopped before him, and Fenris still refused to look him in the face. "This is the only gift that is mine to offer," the man said in a quiet, sorrowful voice. "Not freedom, not even life, not for certain. But a chance. Creators watch over you, Fenris." 

What choice did he have? Only the same one his kind ever had: obey, or die. But for him, that was no choice at all. 

He drank. The liquid was bitter metal on his tongue; like iron but rotted, scalding, _molten._  

As the darkness engulfed him, roaring with ten thousand hideous voices, Fenris seized onto only one thought: _I will not die. I will not die._

_I will not die._

 

* * *

  

When Fenris woke, a raging hunger in his belly and a crushing ache in his head, every one of his wounds had scarred over, leaving pale white glistening lines like spider-silk in their place.

And every strand of hair on his head had turned white.

 

* * *

  

A Warden paced up and down along the end of the stone room, steps quick with restless energy. He was tall -- tall, even for a human -- but thin, which only seemed to emphasize his height. Dark blond hair pulled into a ponytail from which strands escaped every which way; feathers sticking out of every joint and seam of his Warden uniform; he looked like nothing so much as one of the scarecrows the peasants put in their fields to try to keep ravens away. But if there was any inclination to laugh at his ungainly height and rumpled appearance, it was quickly stifled by the dark scowl on his face and barely-repressed tension in every movement, the faint smell of ozone and flicker of lightning that accompanied every gesture. 

"I know that right now, you all think yourself very fine fellows," the Warden was saying, as he paced back and forth before the dark walnut-wooden door leading out of the room. "You were chosen for this duty; you've passed the Joining; and by now you're dreaming of yourself soaring through the sky on the back of a griffon, the thane of all creation and all the land below you at your mercy. 

"You imagine yourself with a griffon at your beck and call, slaying your enemies, bearing you faithfully wherever you want to go, and at the end of the day, when you're done living out your adolescent fantasies, you think you can just put your griffon away like a sword or a pair of boots, don't you? Well, that's where you're _wrong!"_ The man's voice cracked out like a whip, causing the line of newly-fledged Wardens to jump nervously. Except for Fenris, who didn't move, staying staring at his feet without change of expression. 

"A griffon is not a weapon! A griffon is not a horse, or a chariot, or some kind of mounting-block with wings! A griffon is a living, breathing creature that needs to be cared for and looked after, every _second_ of every _day!"_ The man punctuated every word with a blow of his fist to the table which made the entire chamber rattle. "A full-grown griffon needs at least one large goat's worth of foot each day, and you'd better believe that whatever bones and fur they don't cough up as hairballs, you're going to be shoveling out of their eyrie at the other end. Are you prepared to deal with that? Are you prepared to deal with colic, and broken blood-feathers, and croup, and one thousand and other maladies that the Maker has seen fit to inflict on our noble beasts? Are you prepared to chop fifty pounds' worth of fresh meat every day, and shovel that much shit every night? Are you prepared for rigorous training sessions twice a day, every day, for the next two years? Because if you're not prepared for that, then you might as well just turn yourself around and march right out these gates and back to Adamant!" 

"Anders," one of the other Wardens put in, a long-suffering tone to her voice. The Warden subsided, but only slightly, still seething just under the surface. He looked around the room, pinning each of the hapless recruits with a steely brass glare. 

"Let's just get one thing clear," the Warden -- Anders -- pronounced into the silence. " _You_ are not what matters here. _You_ are replaceable. You exist only to serve your griffon -- to make sure that it is fed and groomed and properly socialized and trained to fight, and ready to fight. The Wardens need your griffon far more than they need _you._ Understand your place in this arrangement, and devote your every effort to serving it, and maybe -- just _maybe --_ you'll be worth my griffon's time." 

Diatribe delivered, the Warden at last stood aside from the wooden door, folding his arms over his chest with a thunderous scowl. The other warden heaved a weary sigh, gave them all an apologetic smile, and beckoned them through the door. 

The wooden door opened onto a corridor, wide walls and a high ceiling with an oddly spacious feel to it. Breezes moved freely through the corridor, suggesting an opening to the outside somehow. Fenris shuffled along with the rest of the crowd, his head still down, eyes trained on the ranks of rushes lining the floor. He had not needed the human's ranting in the outer chamber to remember his place, and his own unimportance in the face of duties. He was a slave; his duties were all that he would ever be. 

Fenris was not impressed by Duncan's speeches of brotherhood. In the end, the rules here were the same as they had ever been in Tevinter: Obey or die. Sometimes: obey, and die anyway. But Fenris meant to live. 

When he passed under the first stone archway, a peculiar scent hit his nose that he had never smelled before; it smelled like animals, livestock and manure, but with a particular rank quality that he couldn't place, and an underlying too-familiar tang of blood. A meat-eater lived here, Fenris quickly determined, more than one. 

In the large, round stone room beyond, a shadow stirred, and the sheer _size_ of it broke Fenris out of his habitual submissive gaze: he looked up and couldn't help but recoil, taking a step back towards the stone arch because what lay beyond was a… was a _monster._  

There was little other way to describe it, the hybrid combination of bird and beast, big enough to fill the room beyond to a ceiling nearly eight feet tall above. It sat back on its haunches and he could barely see past the volume of its wings, but there was a glimpse of feline tufted tail, lashing periodically with tense, agitated energy. 

It glared down at the intruders in its lair with golden eyes the size of saucers, narrowed in distrust and murderous bloodthirst, and past the razor-sharp flange that tipped its beak leaked an incessant rumbling growl. It any further proof of its ferocity were needed, the visible parts of the creature's head and neck were riddled with scars, patches of feathers missing to mark the passage of some lucky blade or burn. Yet the creature was here, and its foes were not; whatever peril it had faced in the past, it came out the victor. 

It was little wonder that the entire crowd of fledgling Wardens shuffled nervously back against the stone walls. 

The tall Warden, Anders, brushed through the crowd with impatient elbows and went right _up_ to the murderous beast, murmuring incongruously as though the titan of beak and claw and sinew were no more than a baby. "There, there, Fury," he cooed. "Hungry? Got enough goats? Your color is looking so good! How are your babies, hmmm?" 

The leviathan actually _crooned_ at the madman. Lids shuttered over those bloodthirsty eyes as the beast practically wallowed against Anders, ducking its head against his chest for scratches and pats. As the beast rolled onto its side, lifting its front legs away from the graceful curl of its body, a small herd of… cheeping furry somethings were revealed. 

The other Wardens moved forward, nervously urging each other onwards; Fenris hung back, looking around the eyrie with narrowed eyes. Put together with the Warden's speech outside the door, it seemed clear at last what his duties in this strange new fortress were to be. He was to be a groom after all, then, attending to their needs and overseeing the care of these beasts. 

He moved around the edge of the eyrie, looking over the nooks and crannies of what was to be his new domain, when a pitiful cheeping sound reached his ears. The tips of his ears flicked as he tried to pinpoint the sound; following it back to its source, he knelt down on the stone floor and ducked his head to look under a stone bench. 

One of the brood must have wandered off, and apparently wedged itself under the bench to the point where it could not back out again. Fenris saw the fluffy haunches, the stubby fuzzy tail windmilling furiously as soft claws scraped fruitlessly against the stone. Peering further, he thought he saw the source of the problem; the little stubs of wings are far too small to carry weight yet, but they poked upwards above the rest of the body and got caught against the far edge of the bench, trapping the hatchling in place. 

Letting out a sigh, Fenris took a moment to consider the best way to extract the beast; then he reached under the bench with both hands. One hand slid against the roof of the bench to press the stubby winglets down against the hatchling's body, while the other worked forward to grip the scruff of its neck. With one swift, firm pull -- one that made sweat break out against his back; gods, even a baby griffon was _heavy!_ \-- he slid the stranded hatchling out from under the bench. 

Before he quite knew what had happened, Fenris found himself sitting on the cold stone floor with a lapful of warm, heavy, fluttering hatchling. The baby seemed pathetically grateful to be rescued, and was now jumping up against his chest trying to reach his face with its beak and claws. They were young and soft, still, not sharp enough to be a danger, but Fenris still took a firm grip on the griffon's sides and pushed it back to get a look at it. 

It looked back, cocking its head to one side as if for a better angle of view. At this age, there was barely a discernible difference between the fluffy downy feathers and the fuzzy pale fur of its back half; only a thin rim of cinnamon feathers around its eyes broke up the coloration. Fluffy ears stood out from its head, ridiculously outsized in proportion; both the legs and the wings were short, plump and stubby. It was, bar none, the most ridiculous creature he had encountered in all his life. 

Those green-gold eyes looked straight into his, soulfully, and the griffon said "Squek?" 

Fenris began to wonder -- for the first time since his master had run him down -- if there wasn't more to look forward to in life than living another day of it. If, along with duty, there could be joy.

 

* * *

 

~tbc... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language notes:
> 
> Ciriane is the name of the language and ethnic group that would later become known as Orlesian. 
> 
> The Alamarri have not yet broken away from their Avvar to form what will later become the Ferelden people, so they are still their own language and ethnic group.
> 
> Dwarvish is still used as a common language, but it has not yet become colloquially known as 'Trade.'


	2. Val Miroir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Two years later.**

 

Fenris woke suddenly, his limbs jerking on the bed of straw he lay on. He had not been deeply asleep, merely dozing; he never slept deeply in an unfamiliar place, and the barn in which he and Hawk had been quartered was open to the air. Sounds of siege filtered in through the loose boards: Wardens shouting orders, frightened civilians babbling questions, the bawling of stressed animals, an endless clank and clatter of overloaded wagons passing by. Even having marched through the night to reach this town before the darkspawn did was not enough to exhaust him enough to lower his guard. 

He sat up, ears straining to pick up on whatever had awakened him. Beside him, Hawk snorted and grumbled, front legs pawing restlessly at the floor and leaving deep gouges in the straw. Fenris placed a hand on the bridge of his beak to soothe him, and the griffon settled back down. He took a moment's indulgence to just look over his friend, stroke along the beak and admire its curve of pure ferocity. In the two years since he'd hatched, Hawk had grown at a rate Fenris could never have imagined when he was just a scrawny fledgling; he had lost almost all of the pale white fuzz when his adult feathers came in, and the cinnamon feathers around his eyes had darkened to a near blood-red band across his eyes and the bridge above his beak.

His flight feathers had come in pure black, and the tawny fur along his back and flanks had turned a deep chocolate brown that rippled over thick, heavy, well-fed musculature. He had grown in temperament, as well; the initial needy adoration had grown into a playful and almost sly personality, as well as a stubborn contrary streak when he thought Fenris was giving the 'wrong' orders. Still, despite that, he had taken to Fenris' training well, and the two of them moved together with an absolute trust and surety that kept them alive through every battle. 

Battle that was soon to come? Fenris looked towards the eastern wall; no dawn's light yet filtered through the slats, but there was a luminous quality to the air that suggested that dawn was not far off. When -- 

This time he heard it with his waking ears: the strident, tenor tones of the sentry's horn. The outermost sentries had been posted down at the mouth of the valley, forming a chain along which alarm could travel. If the horns were just reaching them now, the darkspawn would not be far behind. 

He shrugged into his own battle kit -- it didn't take long, as he'd slept in the underpadding of his armor and had only a few straps and buckles to tighten. Hawk came awake, chittering and scraping his claws against the floor, luminous eyes gleaming in the darkness as they focused on Fenris. "Up, up, you lazy beast," Fenris chided him, as he settled his sword belt on the outside of his armor. "It will be battle soon enough." 

Fenris finished his own preparations and went over to his griffon, hauling up the harness and gear that would keep him on his seat in the chaos of battle. Hawk trilled delightedly to see it, climbing to all four feet and arching his wings excitedly before Fenris steadied him with a stern word. Reluctantly, the griffon settled back out of his fighting pose onto all four feet, and Fenris began to the process of wrestling him into his harness. 

Most of the armor was on the chest and flanks; the powerful shoulders had to be left free so that the griffon could move, both legs and wings. The back was only lightly defended, since there were few enough opponents that could come at a griffon from above, and the saddle came equipped with straps sturdy enough to hold a rider in place at all angles and speeds. Overlapping plates along the neck and torso were strong enough to keep out most darkspawn blades and arrows, while still leaving enough flexibility for the griffon to turn its head and torque its body. Hawk inspected Fenris with one beady eye while the elf fastened the greaves onto the front and backs of his legs, to protect against blows that would hamstring him. 

All around them, the other Wardens and their griffons were beginning to stir; Fenris had been the first to hear the alarms, but they were increasing in volume as they got steadily closer. Groggy voices filled the barn, the croaks and cheeps of the griffons awakening from their slumber with a protest. Before Fenris had finished with Hawk's gear, the first runner burst into the barn, banging at the slat walls with an almighty clamor. "Wardens, rise and fight!" he called out, his voice winded from the running he had already done. "Darkspawn spotted on the northern face! Report to the staging ground before the bell sounds!" 

Then he was gone, charging off down the street to the next outpost to rouse the rest of the Wardens quartered in Val Miroir -- assuming that there were any still asleep through this ruckus. The shadowy barn burst into frenzied action as the other Wardens, jolted awake by the summons, began to struggle into their gear and handle rowdy griffons. 

Fenris was the first out the barn door, guiding Hawk by the lead. A short dirt path led from the barn around the back of a building before opening onto a cobbled street. It was in disarray now, like the rest of the town -- military wagons blocked off half the street, and discarded trash half-clogged the rest, the detritus of people fleeing with only what they could carry on their backs. 

Val Miroir was -- had been -- a busy, prosperous town, with sturdy stone buildings and wide, well-paved streets. It had grown up first where the Imperial Highway met the outlet for a pass that went over the mountains, carrying trade and goods from the prosperous heartlands over the mountains to Tevinter and the newly-independent Anderfels. It sported a handful of farms and country estates, but most of the town's wealth had come from trade, which concentrated in beautiful townhouses and a thriving market district.

 Had been, Fenris supposed, because it was a ghost town now. Honestly, it was a wonder that the town had stood as long as it had, with the horde of darkspawn pressing ever nearer -- the Orlesian army had staved off the tide for as long as they could, but surely they must have realized that this end was inevitable. They should have evacuated this town months ago, but they had dawdled and delayed until the very end. Now the Blight had arrived, and the town still was not clear of civilians. 

Fenris guided Hawk down the cluttered street to the wide plaza at the edge of town where the Warden forces had made their main camp. Most of the men and beasts had found shelter in the empty buildings of the town, but the apparatus of war -- the infirmaries and siege weaponry and staging grounds -- were here on the edge of town. Fenris found his battalion's flag with the ease of long practice (a blue falcon on a white background, fluttering on the end of a pikestaff) and led Hawk to their place to wait. 

It would likely be a long wait. Being the first out of bed and the first to the encampment didn't make the rest of the army assemble any faster. Fenris settled in with the ease of long practice, stroking the short feathers of Hawk's ruff as the griffon muttered and bridled with excitement. "Have no fear, Hawk," Fenris murmured as he leaned into his griffon's warm, mane-covered chest. "There will be plenty of blood to shed on the battlefield today." 

The light slowly grew over the mountains as the Wardens assembled; footsoldiers raced past him to stand behind the fortifications, and other riders led their beasts to join Fenris on the wide-open launch field. In the dim gloaming Fenris could only make out the ones closest to him; he saw Nathaniel, nearly a ghost in the darkness in his dark leather, and his mage-partner Bethany huddled into a shawl for warmth against the dawn chill. Nathaniel's eyes crossed his, and they nodded their respects to each other before looking away.

Still they waited. Fenris wasn't sure what was causing the delay -- some last-minute trouble on the other side of the encampment, no doubt. He saw movement in the fog and saw blue-and-silver uniforms material out of the darkness, a pair of Wardens making a slow patrol along the waiting ranks of soldiers ready for battle. One of them Fenris knew well -- Duncan had been the one to recruit him, after all -- and the other he knew by rank at least: Warden-Commander Clarel. 

"We're blockading the narrowest part of the valley, so that will force them to come to us in almost equal numbers," the dark-skinned man was saying as they came into earshot. "It's a good position for us, but I have no illusions that we will be able to hold it forever." 

"How long until the last of the people of Val Miroir are out of danger?" the silver-haired woman with the staff asked.

"Out of danger? Until the Blight has ended," Duncan said dryly, and Clarel chuckled. Duncan went on more seriously, "At their current pace it will take at least until midafternoon for the last of the caravans to clear the city. I'd want to give them at least until sundown to get a head start, before we begin to retreat after them." 

Clarel shook her close-shaved head in disbelief. "What in the Flames took them so long?" she exclaimed. "They should have been gone already -- the evacuation order was sounded a week ago!"

"The bottleneck was at the University," Duncan said with a shrug. "All those books are heavy and bulky to move. Apparently the curators waited until the worst of the throngs had already left, so that they would not bog down on the road, and then found themselves caught by the horde." 

Clarel gave a weary sigh. "Civilians," she said in a tone of utter disgust, and Fenris could not help but agree. 

They passed on, footsteps fading out of his hearing, and Fenris went back to waiting. A girl in blue and silver brigandine -- Wardens' tabard, but no armor -- came down the line hauling a bucket of water and another of what looked like dead rats. Not for the Wardens, but for their beasts, to keep them fed and well-watered before the battle began. Hawk crooned his approval at the snack, slurping the water noisily and tossing his rat into the air to gulp it down whole. Fenris couldn't help but smile at his antics, even as he drank more sedately from his canteen and ate a few bites of jerky. He wasn't hungry -- the anticipation of battle was more than enough to kill his appetite -- but he well knew the necessity of conserving his strength. 

The gap on his other side was filled at last as Oghren stumbled up, nearly dragged by his mottled grey-and-black griffon, swaying as he walked. "I'm awake, I'm awake," the dwarf said, voice slurred and groggy. Fenris had no doubt he was afflicted by a hangover, as he had been pretty much ever since Fenris had known him -- but for all his slur and stumble, it never seemed to hinder him in battle. Perhaps the headache helped fuel his berserker rage. 

"Glad to see you made it," Fenris said dryly, and Oghren groaned in response as he took a drink from his hip flask. His griffon, the only thing in the Corps more foul-tempered than Oghren himself, watched with a murderous gleam in its red-flecked eyes. 

"No point in rushin' if all we're gonna do is stand around with our thumbs up our buttholes," the dwarf grumbled. "They're not even gonna send us up at first, you know that. Just waitin' and more waitin.' " 

Fenris could not fault his conclusions, even if he disapproved of the cavalier attitude. 

When the waiting ended, it was so suddenly that Fenris almost missed it, dozing as he was in a half-trance. In the distance, at the forward point of the encampment, a blue and silver flag was hoisted to the top of a tall pole, and a horn sounded. 

It was begun. Fenris tensed in excitement and dread, although they were not yet called upon. The forward scouts began their advance, the footsoldiers moved into position behind the embankments, and the first wave of griffons took off. Thunder filled the clearing as half a hundred wings beat the air, clawed feet gouging long rents in the earth as powerful haunches bunched and sprang. Fenris saw Bethany's shawl stream behind her like a banner for a moment before their griffon rose high enough to block the sight. 

They rose into the air in formation, long lines winging forward in the sky -- and their wings blocked out the sunlight, because in that moment the sun finally broke above the line of the mountains to their east, casting brilliant rays of silver into the valley below. The first light of dawn fell on the mountain's face, illuminating a seething, gibbering mass of blackness as the Darkspawn charged. 

A current of something like lightning ran through the Warden ranks -- an excitement borne of dread, and fury, and bone-solid stubbornness. Fenris did not fight it, and when the others lifted their voices in a roar of defiance. " _Victory! Victory! Victory!"_ they called. 

Hawk lent his voice to the chorus too, his huge chest heaving like a blacksmith's bellows as he threw back his head and let an earsplitting shriek echo to the heavens. All of the griffons took up the call, screaming their scorn and defiance to the enemy ahead, and the Wardens thrust forward to meet the darkspawn tide in a bone-shattering clash. 

Still Fenris held them in check, one hand on Hawk's harness to keep him in place as they watched and waited. They had their part in this dance, and it was not yet.  
  
Most of the riders in the Aerial Corps worked in pairs. One warrior paired with one mage -- like Nathaniel paired with Bethany -- to fly over the darkspawn army and attack them from above. The warrior would guide the griffon while the mage cast spells of elemental destruction; occasionally, if the warrior was skilled in the handling of bows, they could pepper the darkspawn with arrows as well. 

Mage/rider griffon pairs were extremely valuable, but Fenris was secretly glad he hadn't been chosen to be one of them. Ever since his old master had maimed him, his scars flared with agonizing pain when magic was used nearby. Even if he had been able to find a mage partner in whom he could trust -- and as of yet, he never had -- he did not think he would be able to bear the pain.  
  
The first wave of griffons, seeming to glow in the early morning light, sailed overhead to clear the front ranks of the Wardens. They flew in careful formation, matching each other's speed; and as they passed over the seething horde of darkspawn fire began to bloom from the back of each griffon. They quickly gained in size and speed as they fell, bursting into explosions of flame as they met the ground. Those darkspawn that were hit were incinerated immediately; the ones at the edges of the fireballs shrieked with agony and hate as the fire seared their flesh. The griffons flew on, implacable, and another wave of fireballs began to kindle.  
  
And yet as fast as the mages could cast, peppering the darkspawn ranks with wide craters of flame, they closed ranks again almost as fast. Not even the full elemental fury of magic could make a dent in that unholy horde. 

There was nothing simple about directing a battle. Standing under the blue-and-silver griffon banner, Clarel kept watch over the entire battlefield, and sent out a steady stream of orders. Messengers, flags hoisted or lowered, and horn calls all held their own meaning; answering calls and banners flown by the captains out on the field all told their own part of the story. 

The sound of galloping hooves caught his attention, and he turned to see a blood-spattered courier urging their mount into the command center. Other Wardens parted to make way, and the courier slid off his horse while it was still moving to salute Clarel. "Commander, the darkspawn have outflanked us!" he cried, even as he belatedly moved to salute. "Came out of the ground, scores of 'em! Ferrenly needs reinforcements, now!" 

Fenris came on high alert, every muscle quivering, prepared to leap onto Hawk's back and fly off. Even though they had not yet received order to that effect, he was still poised to do it on a moment's notice, to anticipate the next orders he'd been given. 

It was a habit that was held-over from his time as a slave -- that acute attention to those around him, ready to jump at a second's notice, to anticipate his Master's needs above all else -- even his own. He'd learned, over the years as a Warden, to outgrow those habits somewhat -- that he couldn't and shouldn't try to second-guess his Commanders or move before the order was given.

Still, it was hard. 

Clarel had been questioning the messenger for details about the flanking attack, and after a long moment of studying the map, she nodded firmly. She turned towards Fenris' unit, beckoning them forward. 

"You five -- Falcons, reinforce the Eastern flank," she instructed them. "Along the slope, south by a half-mile. Lieutenant Ferrenly's division. That position should have been behind our lines, but it sounds like the blighters slipped through the caves and outflanked them. Push them back!" 

"Aye, Commander," Fenris snapped out a salute and leapt onto Hawk's back, while the cacophony of noise behind him indicated that the other Wardens were doing the same. The griffon's powerful muscles bunched and then they were in the air, dizzied with the speed of their flight. 

Fenris belonged to the rapid-reinforcement wing, the Falcons, so named because they had been chosen as the fastest and strongest griffonriders of any division. Unlike the aerial strikers who carried both warrior and mage, these griffons bore only one rider apiece, letting them fly faster and get to their goal quicker. They had no fixed position in the army, instead going wherever they were needed, wherever the darkspawn threatened to break through the lines. 

As they had broken through now. Fenris spotted the battle ahead, the blue and silver banners overwhelmed by swarming black. He signaled for Hawk to dive and the griffon did, fast as the falcons for which they were named.

Hawk descended with an unearthly screech that rang the air like a bell. He'd come straight down on top of an ogre, all the weight and momentum of his dive focused with pin-point precision on the monster's back. The ogre went down with a pained bellow, thrashing and struggling, but Hawk held grimly on with his front talons even as the claws on his back feet raked huge trenches in the monster's flesh. He attacked with claw and talon and wing -- but never with beak, Fenris had trained him on this rigorously ever since he was a hatchling. Strike and claw, but never bite. 

Beside him the other members of the Falcons hit the ground, savaging the darkspawn as they arrived. Fenris saw Oghren's foul-tempered black griffon swoop down and grab a Hurlock in each talon, wings beating as they lifted their wiggling prey back up into the air. Higher, higher still until they were over a deep ravine filled with sharp rocks -- and dropped them. 

There was no time to watch how the other Falcons were doing; darkspawn swarmed around Hawk's flanks, and all Fenris' attention narrowed to fending them off. Hawk's formidable talons made short work of any darkspawn who came within range of them, and his powerful wings could block and beat back those who approached from the side, but his flanks and rear were vulnerable. Fenris hacked at clutching darkspawn hands with his greatsword, chopped off leering darkspawn heads, until Hawk's feet were trampling over a carpet of blighted bodies. 

Falcons had to be fast, and their riders had to be among the strongest warriors, since they carried no other backup. Fenris was one of the best; yet even he was almost overwhelmed by the assault of darkspawn. The world narrowed down to the next strike, to bringing his sword around as fast and smoothly as possible to parry and riposte, even as his mount moved beneath him. They were one unit, to pounce and claw and savage while Fenris wielded his blade, then whirl to the next quarter to face the attacks coming from that direction. 

 

From the corner of his eye Fenris saw another winged shape land beside him, then another. Automatically he moved to fall into line, urging Hawk to back up towards the others to form a protective triangle. With that they were at last able to clear some space, to push through the crowd of attacking darkspawn and make progress. 

They pushed towards the ridge where the Warden infantry had been making their stand; caught between the griffons on one side and the Warden shield-wall on the other, the darkspawn advance disintegrated. Shrieking in confusion and fury, the genlocks tried to scramble clear while the hurlocks charged in mindless hate, going down in a welter of black blood. 

Fenris urged Hawk to climb the ridge, and looked down at the weary figures in silver and blue armor. One of them stepped forward, pulling his helmet off to reveal sweat-soaked black hair falling into bright blue eyes, and a stain of blood running down his jaw. He nodded up at Fenris, exhaustion in every movement. "Thank you for the assist, Warden," he said. "We thought we were done for." 

"You held your formation admirably," Fenris replied. He looked around. "Where is Ferrenly? We were told he was in command of this unit." 

"Dead," the soldier said flatly. "I'm Carver. We were supposed to guard the last of the refugee caravan's retreat, but nobody really thought the darkspawn would push this far back. They cut our line in half, and we dug in on this ridge. The rest went under."

Fenris grunted in acknowledgment of the news. "Reinforcements will be arriving shortly," he said. "We will hold the way clear for them. Is this all of the force that attacked you?" He waved a hand at the field of dead darkspawn.

Carver shook his head. "There were more," he said, his voice grim. "There were --"

Anything more he would have said was cut off by a blood-curdling roar. Fenris whirled around to see an ogre emerging from the dimness under the trees. In its hand it clutched a misshapen figure in blood-drenched blue and silver; a human body, Fenris supposed, but not all of one. 

The ogre roared again and Hawk screamed in defiance, lifting his wings in challenge. "Rally the others. Get to safety!" he shouted at Carver, but he didn't have time to see whether the other Warden obeyed. The ogre charged, and Hawk lunged forward to meet it.

Fenris rode the charge, sword pointed forward and braced against his shoulder. When the griffon and ogre met, the ground shook. His blade sank into the ogre's chest nearly up to the hilt -- the ogre screamed and reared back, and Fenris almost lost hold of his weapon. Blood gouted from the deep puncture as the ogre staggered, but unfortunately it had been too high to pierce the heart; a severe wound, but not a fatal one. Fenris steadied his grip on his blade, and they closed again. 

It was a brutal match, the two of them against the one giant; between Hawk's talons and Fenris' sword they had more weapons, but the ogre's sheer mass and iron-hard skin was difficult to penetrate. It swung a club as large and heavy as a tree-branch which Hawk had to duck and dodge; and when it lowered its head to charge, wicked horns tipped with cruel spikes, even the griffon had to scramble out of the way. 

Hawk fell on the ogre with another scream of rage, bloodthirst coloring the griffon's voice as he ripped and tore. The ogre seized on the joint of the griffon's wing -- protected by armor, thankfully, and flailed with its club, trying to line up a solid blow. Fenris hurried to release the buckles of the straps holding him in place in flight, and cleared his saddle just seconds ahead of a vicious club-blow. Scrambling forward along Hawk's back, he lined up his blade with the exposed join of armor at the ogre's neck, and thrust. 

Again the blade sank in almost to the hilt, but this time when he ripped it out, a spurt of arterial blood followed. Fenris threw himself back as the ogre screamed and snapped, but the frenzy did not last long; within a matter of heartbeats the monster's struggles began to weaken. Fenris grabbed for purchase as Hawk lurched forward, determined to finish the kill. 

After the ogre went down, Fenris took a moment to breathe at last. While Hawk worried at the darkspawn corpse, ripping it from stern to keel with his powerful claws -- a habit Fenris didn't discourage, it was always safer to ensure no darkspawn corpses could rise again behind you -- Fenris wiped sweat and foul blood out of his eyes and rested his aching sword-arm across the saddlebow. 

He looked around; the skirmish had shifted somewhat while he was engaged with the ogre, and the front line of the battle had moved ahead of him. He caught a glimpse of Oghren's fiery red hair against the top of the hill, and gathered Hawk's reins in one hand. Once they'd both caught their breath, they'd move up and rejoin the fighting, but right now it looked as though his brothers and sisters had this well in hand. 

A shadow passed overhead, heralding the thunderclap of wings. Fenris looked up to see an enormous griffon gliding in low over the crest of the hill, with something oddly irregular about the outline. The griffon cleared the crest and curled its wings in, dropping rapidly towards the earth, and Fenris caught a glimpse of the rider. 

The griffon landed in the clearing near him, taking a few steps to bleed its momentum before it halted. It was no less impressive on the ground as it had been in the air, half again the size of his own griffon, with an enormous wingspread of copper-red feathers and a curly russet mane. Perched atop its saddle, even a full-grown human would have looked like a child; Sigrun, the rider, looked positively toylike. 

She grinned her bright grin at him, blue eyes gleaming against her black-barred face. "Hey, Fenris! Good to see ya!" she greeted him enthusiastically. "Looks like we're pushing forward again, huh? Just need to drop these poor fellows off somewhere safe, and then we'll be off again!" 

Fenris glanced past Sigrun, and the griffon's irregular silhouette came into focus. Unlike most of the griffons who wore only armor and saddle, the big griffon had a peculiar contraption draped over its back and flanks: a sort of sturdy net of silken thread, like a sailor's rigging. Clinging to the netting were half a dozen people, in various stages of weeping with terror or crying with relief. 

The griffon sat back, lowering its haunches so that the passengers could climb off, and Sigrun spoke to them in an encouraging voice. "There, see, didn't I say I'd get you to safety? I never lie," she said, turning her bright heartening smile onto the passengers. "We're in the clear here, so you just need to follow the flags to get back to the Warden camp, and they'll tell ya where to go from there. You'll be fine, okay?"

"Where did you find them?" Fenris asked Sigrun, as the shaken humans began picking themselves up and stumbling towards the distant flags. The red griffon watched them go with a proprietary air, muttering in concern when one of them stumbled and darting its head forward to give the woman a powerful shove back to her feet. 

"Homestead a little further up the valley," Sigrun said, burying her hands in the griffon's ruff to give it a good scratch on the neck. "A whole family and a couple of farmhands. Hurlock scouts were battering down the barricade on the door when me and Jay got there. It was close." 

Not all griffon riders in the Aerial Corps were assigned to direct combat roles -- either the aerial assault wing or the rapid response wing. Some, like Sigrun, were devoted to search and rescue: flying behind enemy lines to seek out Wardens that had become stranded, or captured civilians. They were no less deadly than the others -- they had to be, in order to land in the middle of the darkspawn army and clear a space for the rescuees to grab on -- but their primary function was to save lives, not take them. Sigrun had been chosen for the duty as she had a friendly personality and cute appearance that reassured terrified civilians, and her griffon was large enough and strong enough to carry the weight of multiple people in addition to her own. 

"This valley was supposed to be evacuated a week ago," Fenris said, a disapproving frown on his face as he watched them go. "They knew the darkspawn were closing in. What did they expect to become of them?" 

Sigrun shrugged. "When you've been living with the darkspawn breathing down your neck your whole life, the news that they're getting closer doesn't seem so urgent," she said. "I guess they thought they could hide until the darkspawn left." 

Fenris shook his head in disgust. "Fools," he said. 

"Fortunately, my Jayden here can spot hiders from a thousand feet in the air, miles off," Sigrun laughed, bending forward briefly give her mount a hug. Her arms barely circled halfway around the big griffon's neck, but he still arched his neck into the embrace, a rumbling croon bursting from his throat. "He's got an instinct for them. Well, we ought to get back out there. Always more stupid civvies to rescue, huh?" 

She straightened up and gave her mount a slap on the shoulder. The red griffon heaved an sigh, air whooshing out of that enormous chest, and then got back to his feet and turned around. He took a few running steps to gain momentum, reaching the crest of the small hill and launching himself into the air. 

Fenris watched them go for a moment, then shook himself and returned to the present. He urged Hawk forward, moving them up the hill and towards where he had last seen Oghren, trusting that the berserker would find the thick of the battle to be in. But it looked as though the fighting here had largely died down; reinforcements had arrived on foot at some point to strengthen the line, and the darkspawn assault had largely fallen back. 

He met Oghren and the others halfway, as they too were falling back from the active skirmish -- time to regroup and return to the command center for more orders. Just as they were assembled and about to lift, a messenger in Warden's colors came pounding up on a galloping horse. "Center field!" the messenger yelled as soon as he came within hearing range. "Captain Bransten's unit -- yellow and green standard. Darkspawn making a massive push -- ogres and siege weapons -- need reinforcement!" 

"Then let's give the blighters a bloody nose," Oghren growled, and urged his griffon into the air. "Give 'em hell, Quincy!" The black-and-grey griffon let out a screech that sounded like it belonged in the Void itself, and sprang forward. Heart pouncing with anticipation, Fenris followed. There was always another enemy to fight, always another place to be. 

 

* * *

  

The battle lasted all day and well past sundown; not until near midnight did Fenris hear the horns calling the retreat. Even then, Fenris and Hawk stayed on duty, hopping back and forth to defend the retreating columns when the darkspawn tried to harry them. Still, the retreat went in good order, the wings pulling back without many casualties among the Wardens. 

Hundreds of darkspawn lay dead on the field behind them, including scores of powerful foes like ogres and emissaries. The town had been evacuated completely, its civilian population removed to safety and much of its wealth and knowledge saved. Even most of the outlying farms, many of which had refused to retreat until the horde had already overtaken them, had been saved thanks to the efforts of Sigrun and the other rescue riders. Fenris looked back over his shoulder at the town receding into the distance, wreathed now in lurid orange flames as the darkspawn pillaged the once-beautiful town, burning all that would burn and smearing the rest with their filth and Blight. 

And he thought: _this is what victory looks like?_  

He was inutterably weary: they had had only two breaks from the fighting, once in the midmorning and another, longer one shortly before sundown. He walked now, leading Hawk by the reins instead of adding his own armored weight to the griffon's burden. The griffon stumbled along in an ungainly three-footed hop -- an ogre-flung boulder from the last battle had collided with the griffon's front leg, shattering it despite the armor. Thankfully, it had not inhibited his ability to fly, or else they might not have made it off the battlefield alive. 

Though he had continued to fight bravely and dutifully throughout the rest of the battle, ever since they had finally been able to retreat Hawk had kept up a steady commentary of whining, making sure everyone in the world knew that he was _hurt_ and needed attention _immediately._  

"Be strong," Fenris urged his mount, resting his forehead against Hawk's beak and staring into his yellow eyes. "We have not much further to go." 

Hawk let out an ear-piercing _scree_ of discontent, which made Fenris flinch as the sound scraped along the edge of his hearing. 

"Come on, Hawk," he urged his griffon, tugging slightly on the reins. "Just a little further. That _mage_ will be there, and he will heal you." 

Hawk cocked his head at Fenris, tufted ears twitching with interest, and Fenris repressed a sigh. "Fine. _Anders_ will be there. You want to see Anders, don't you?" 

That name was the magic word. Hawk perked up and then surged ahead, nearly pulling Fenris off his feet in an effort to keep up.

 

* * *

 

 

Passing through the portcullis to Griffon Wing Keep, it was as though an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders; though Fenris was no less exhausted and battered than he had been, his heart felt lighter on seeing the familiar shapes of the courtyard and its many towers. All round him, the other Wardens were straightening up and lifting their heads higher as they passed over the invisible boundary, so Fenris thought he was not alone in this; however strange their lifestyle, this was their home and their sanctuary. 

The courtyard was teeming with activity both man and beast. Off to one side, trains of pack mules that had faithfully carried their supplies for the last campaign were being unloaded and unsaddled. On the other side, Wardens that had not been called upon for the last campaign were undergoing a vigorous practice drill. And at the far end of the courtyard, at the base of a broad round stone tower leading up to the eyries… 

Hawk gave a squawk of joy and surged forward, crest standing erect and a bounce in his tail as he charged towards the mob of men and griffons at the base of the tower. Fenris blew his breath out in a sigh of deep aggravation and followed more slowly. 

Half a dozen of the griffons that had just returned from the last campaign were crowded around a tall, rumpled figure in Warden colors, the seams of the leather and brigandine stuck all through with feathers. Anders laughed as another of the Griffons reared up and tried to rub its head against him, somehow managing to steady himself against the weight; Fenris had no idea how he managed it, as even the smallest of the griffons outweighed him several times over. Besides, Anders was only a mage, lacking the strength of a trained warrior. He probably cheated with magic, Fenris thought grumpily. 

The griffons were all ridiculously ecstatic to see Anders again, even though they had seen him not two weeks before when they left the keep. Fenris had no idea what the noble beasts saw in the disheveled, skinny man, but Hawk always greeted him with as much enthusiasm as Fenris himself, and _he_ had been the one to raise and train Hawk from a baby, not Anders. 

Well, that wasn't quite true -- Anders had helped deliver most of these griffons from the egg. He'd watched over their weaning and fledging, tended to them through colic and molt, and nursed their wounds when they came back from a battle. Perhaps it wasn't that strange, after all, that they'd be so happy to see him again. 

As Fenris approached, Anders ducked out from under the wing of the griffon that was determinedly trying to groom him, laughing as he did so. His face was flushed, a wide grin on his face and a happy sparkle in his amber eyes as he laughed, and Fenris' heart fluttered like a griffon's wing in his chest. No, not that strange at all, really. 

"Easy now, Krasny," Anders was saying as he encouraged the gold-and-brown barred griffon back down onto all fours. "Enough of that twirling and showing off. You'll pull out your contours if you keep preening like that, and then where will your beautiful profile be?"

The mid-size griffon gave an indignant squawk as Anders pushed past him and went on to the next one, swiping at the hem of his coat with his talons. But Anders' attention was already on to the next griffon, a creamy white female with red-barred wings who was cheeping like a hatchling. "Hello, Natalie! You're looking well? That rider of yours treating you right?" 

This sideshow would likely go on all day. "Anders," Fenris called out, trying to get his attention. 

The mage spared him a distracted glance. "Be right with you, Fen -- What in the Flames?" As he exclaimed this, he pushed past the crowd of griffons and hurried over to Hawk, who practically thrummed with excitement to have Anders' attention. "Hawk! What happened to you? What is this? How did your blasted rider let this happen?" 

Fenris bristled defensively, much as he'd expected the accusation. "I did not _let_ anything happen, mage," he snapped. "Incidents like this happen in the heat of battle -- you know that perfectly well." 

Anders was crouched in front of Hawk, holding the griffon's front leg up with one arm while he ran the other along the leg, inspecting the damage. He looked up at Fenris and scowled dangerously. "And I suppose the _heat of battle_ followed you all the way back to the Keep, jolting the break out of alignment with every step?" he demanded. 

"What was I to do, carry him back to the Keep?" Fenris said, trying to keep his temper. "Leave him on the battlefield until you could get around to coming and tending him on the spot? Ask the Darkspawn nicely to hang back so that we wouldn't have to retreat?" 

"Tchah!" Anders abandoned the argument with a sound of disgust, devoting all his attention to the injured limb. Hawk played up his injury for all he was worth, making pitiful sounds as he butted his head against Anders' shoulder, seeking soothing pats and reassurances. Fenris glared at him; he knew perfectly well that the beast was not hurt nearly as badly as he was feigning, else he'd not have made it back from the battle at all. 

"The bones in the foreleg are skewed out of alignment," Anders said at length; anger still laced his tone, but his professional nature had taken over. "It will need to be set before the leg can heal. I'll need to take him back to the infirmary." 

Fenris had expected this. "I will go with him," he declared, in a tone that brooked no argument. 

Anders rolled his eyes theatrically. "Please yourself," he said. He stood up and began to lead the injured griffon back into the eyrie, cooing encouragement with every stumbled step. 

But Fenris had caught a glimpse of softening in Anders' eyes as he had turned away, and knew it was not just himself that he'd pleased.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The series of stone chambers that made up Anders' domain was the bottom floor of the eyrie tower, a large round open space of connected rooms. It felt like a cross between a stable and a barber's surgery; there were large niches in the walls occupied by flat, square pallets each the size of a small wagon, and a similar-sized low block of stone in the middle of the room. Disheartening bloodstains ran from the edge of the operating table to a drain in the floor, and the room smelled even more of blood than a griffon's eyrie usually did. 

Fenris spotted another person in the infirmary as he entered, a blond elven woman in a Warden's tabard, with her feet bare even against the stone floor. She eyed them with disfavor as Anders entered leading Hawk, Fenris following; but then, as far as Fenris knew Velanna didn't like anyone, not even Anders. 

As a mage and an elf, by all rights Velanna ought to have been in the main fighting with of the Aerial Corps, raining fireballs down on the Darkspawn from above. He still wasn't entirely sure why she wasn't. From the little he'd heard, Velanna had been Sigrun's partner once, but that pairing had ended badly enough that Sigrun had gone on to work in the search and rescue wing solo, and Velanna had gone to work in the eyries. Where, to the great benefit of everyone involved, she hardly ever had to deal with other people. 

"Anders, come look at this," Velanna commanded as soon as the man had crossed the threshold. "I'm trying to put together a special liquid feed diet for that phoenix in the back court, and I can't make out the labeling system on your supplements. Which one of these is the arbor thistle?" 

"What? Oh…" Anders moved off, diverted, and Fenris huffed with exasperation at the mage's inability to stay on task. 

A rustling movement from behind made him jump, and he turned around a bit too fast to pretend it was a casual movement. A pair of bright blue eyes watched him unblinkingly from one of the stone niches -- not only bright in color, but actually _glowing,_ a faint luminescence that reflected off the smooth stone of the wall.

"You have returned," a deep voice spoke from the shadows, and a large silhouette shifted and unfolded as the source of the voice climbed to all four legs. "How fared the battle with the creatures of injustice?" 

There were a lot of things that Fenris had adjusted to during his time with the Wardens: from the good, like a whole new way of thinking and seeing the world that wasn't filtered through the eyes of a slave. The bad, such as having the sounds of darkspawn forever in his head. And the weird, usually brought on by close proximity to the Warden Mages and their ceaseless efforts to find more efficient ways to roast ever-larger groups of darkspawn. 

But of all the things he'd had to get used to, the existence of Justice was by far one of the strangest. According to the legends circulating around Griffon Wing Keep, the Wardens had been locked in a battle with an extraordinarily powerful and deadly darkspawn emissary, whose foul magics clashing with that of the Warden Mages had torn open the veil. In the scuffle to get it sealed again, a benign spirit from the other side -- Justice -- had been drawn through. He claimed that he had sensed their efforts to fight evil and injustice and been drawn to help, and had wound up locked in the body of one of the slain Wardens. 

Once the rift had been sealed, Justice had been trapped on this side of the Veil -- and rather than simply kill the possessed corpse as an abomination, the Wardens had decided to stay and accept Justice as an ally. He'd fought with the warriors for years even as his body decayed around him; and when it could no longer support the spirit within, he'd found a new home -- inside one of the newborn griffons. A spirit of Justice inside the symbol of the Order itself; someone must have thought that too good a chance to pass up. 

Personally, Fenris found Justice incredibly unnerving. He loved Hawk fiercely and had a high opinion of his capabilities, but griffons were not meant to talk with the intelligence of men. Nor was Fenris the only one put off by his presence; as imposing and deadly as Justice was on the battlefield, he unnerved and upset enough of the rank-and-file Wardens that he only came out for the most dire of battles. The rest of the time he spent in the eyries with Anders, fussing over the conditions of the griffons and lecturing tediously to anyone within earshot about griffon rights. 

Griffon rights. Fenris didn't know whether Justice had given the idea to Anders or Anders to Justice, but either way, when the two of them got going it was time for any self-preserving Warden to absent themselves from the eyrie. 

"It went well enough," Fenris answered, composing his expression into something cool. "We were able to evacuate the civilians before the darkspawn overran the town." 

The massive griffon tilted its head to one side, in an all-too-familiar expression of griffon body language. "But the town was lost, nevertheless?" the deep voice rumbled. "The darkspawn have advanced another day?" 

Fenris sighed. "Yes, Justice, the town was lost," he admitted, willing to admit his frustration and disappointment here, at least. "It was inevitable. We delayed as long as we could, but one town wasn't worth throwing the entire Order away on a futile defense." 

Justice regarded him for a long moment, that icy gaze seeming to pierce his soul. For a moment he thought Justice would continue to lecture him, but instead he turned his head to regard Hawk. The smaller griffon gave a small _squek_ of greeting, but otherwise remained unusually reserved and subdued. 

"Your griffon is injured," Justice announced, his resonant voice rolling across the stone. "A break in his leg. Did you return all the way from the battle site on foot?" 

"Yes, and Anders already lectured me on this, thank you," Fenris snapped. "What else could I have done, Justice? We could hardly stay at the battle site indefinitely." 

"You could have flown directly back to the Keep rather than walking over difficult terrain," Justice replied. "That at least would have spared the injury from exacerbation, as well as getting treatment more quickly." 

Fenris shook his head. "I would have if I could, believe me," he said. "But I had not been given permission to separate from the unit. Unless we could all return by air, we had to all stay together." 

"Then Clarel should have given you dispensation to travel ahead," Justice said, disapproval thick and heavy in his voice. "Forcing a wounded griffon to walk on an injured leg simply for the convenience of keeping the unit together is no more than laziness, and cruel. I will speak with the Warden-Commander." 

Fenris sighed. "If you say so, Justice," he said. 

"I do. This noble beast has waited too long already for relief. Anders!" Justice turned his head, directing the thunderous call to the other side of the room. "Attend to your patients now. Velanna, you should not distract him when he has important healing to do, as you well know." 

Velanna huffed in annoyance, crossing her arms over her chest defensively, but did not stop Anders as he jumped and then came hastily back across the room. "Sorry, sorry," he said sheepishly. "You're right, we need to set this break before it gets any worse. Justice? Can you help?" 

"I will lend my strength," Justice said, inclining his massive head in a regal nod. "Let us proceed." 

The injured griffon was tempted by Anders with a hunk of raw bloody meat, which smelled to Fenris' sensitive nose suspiciously medicinal; Hawk seemed suspicious as well, but under Anders' coaxing gulped it down anyway. Shortly afterwards he became drowsy, his movements sluggish and his posture relaxed, pushing his head against Anders' chest in a half-drunken manner. 

Between them, they got the half-ton griffon up and situated on the examining table; Anders moved him through gentle coaxing and encouragement, and once he was in the desired position, Justice held him by the simple expedient of climbing on the table as well and sitting on him. He was half again the size of a normal griffon, so once he was in place, there were few forces that could move him. 

Fenris leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. As he watched the two of them manhandling Hawk on the table, he also crossed his booted ankles, gripped his elbows with his opposing hands, and bit his tongue. Anything that would encourage him to stand still and silent, and not interfere. 

Despite the sedation Hawk was letting out little drowsy cries of pain as Anders felt over the broken leg, testing for the edges and alignment of bone. Velanna had come to assist, and the two mages bent over the griffon's limb, murmuring quietly to each other. Fenris saw Anders nod sharply, and Justice pressed down harder to keep Hawk in place. 

A sharp _crack,_ like a stone breaking under the assault of a catapault -- Hawk let out a piercing cry, and Fenris jumped despite all his efforts at control. He gripped his elbows hard and took deep breaths, reminding himself that there was no need to go to his griffon's aid. Hawk was already in the best of care, in the best of hands. Even if those hands were the ones that hurt him. 

Anders had raised his voice in a soothing litany. "There, there, it's all right now. Sorry, sorry, it's almost over. Shhh. There we go -- just a little more -- aaand it's set. Good job, Velanna; thanks for the assist, Justice. Now just hold everything in place, while I get some creation on this break…"

Blue light sprang up from between Anders' hands, illuminating his face from below. It cast strange shadows of his chin and nose, upwards instead of down, highlighting his intense expression as he focused his attention on the healing spell. The same blue light flowed down from his hands over the griffon's limb, enveloping it in a cerulean sheath. Hawk made unhappy, querulous noises, but the sharp note of agony was gone from his voice -- slowly, Fenris found himself relaxing. 

It didn't actually take long, after all that build-up. Anders carefully lowered the griffon's leg back to the table, and straightened up with a radiant smile. "There, good as new," he said, and patted Hawke on the shoulder. "Or at least, it will be. I'd like for Hawk to stay here in the infirmary overnight," he said, turning to address Fenris over his shoulder. 

Fenris frowned, straightening up from the wall. "I thought you had completely healed the break," he challenged. 

"I did," Anders said quickly. "But sometimes it takes a little time for a person's, or a griffon's body to really absorb all the changes and come to a new equilibrium. Also, he's still groggy from the sedative, and I don't want him trying to fly anywhere."

The healer's arguments made sense, and Fenris gave an unwilling nod. "I will stay here with him tonight, then," he announced. 

Turning away as she wrapped up a cord of leather, he caught Velanna rolling her eyes. Well, she could think whatever she wanted; if Hawk was going to be sick and vulnerable in a place other than his usual eyrie, Fenris was going to be there. 

Anders sighed. "I can't argue with your good intentions," he said, "but for the Maker's sake, you have to take care of yourself, too. At least go -- I mean, why not at least take some time to wash and eat first?" 

" _Especially_ wash," Velanna added darkly from her side of the infirmary. 

"Velanna!" 

"While the Keeper's words are harsh, her sentiment is not incorrect," Justice remarked, as he climbed off the operating table and resettled his wing feathers. "This is a sanctum of healing and salvation, and you will be more amenable to healing -- and more help to your griffon -- if you are settled in yourself first." 

Anders pointed at Justice. "What he said." 

Hawk took the moment to squawk loudly, as he stood on four feet and tested his weight on his recently-broken limb. He gave a little hop, then swayed drunkenly, only for Justice and Anders between them to catch him and steer him back upright. 

" _Fine,_ " Fenris said irritably. "It seems I am outnumbered. I will go. But I'll be back," he warned them. 

Anders smiled, despite the tiredness around his eyes. "Looking forward to it," he said cheerfully, and gave Fenris a wink before he set off on his next chore.

 

* * *

 

 

~tbc...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this entry was done by **[thepioden!](https://thepioden.tumblr.com/post/153334065334)**


	3. Griffon Wing Keep

  

For the sake of his fellow Wardens, Fenris took himself off to the bathing rooms _before_ he went to dinner. He lacked the patience for a full soak just then, but a sponge bath and a clean uniform went a long way towards making him feel -- and smell -- fit for human company again. 

Once marginally clean -- at least, free of blood and mud and sweat stains -- he headed to the mess hall for food. Warden kitchens tended to run for most of the day and much of the night, both because the Wardens tended to leave and return on various missions at all hours and also to try to keep up with Warden appetites. Fenris found himself a trencher and a serving spoon, and considered his options. 

When it came to food, there was one advantage that Griffon Wing Keep had that other Warden fortresses lacked: meat. The griffons required large amounts of fresh meat daily, so there was always a slaughter running out in the fields behind the keep where the herds of livestock roamed. Since griffons were not especially finicky eaters, it was a small matter to lay claim to some of the more prime pieces of each bull, goat or pig before it disappeared into hungry beaks. Fenris had his choice between druffalo steaks, mutton kebabs, or crispy sides of bacon, all freshly killed and hot from the fire. 

The rest of the meal was less appetizing, although the vegetables and grains were just as necessary. Large cauldrons of potage -- grains boiled with lentils into a thick porridge -- alternated with stacks on stacks of barley-stuffed cabbage rolls. Fenris loaded his tray with cabbage rolls and goat kebabs, and found a spot at a barren table where, he hoped, he wouldn't have to talk to anyone. 

Fate could never be so kind to him. He hadn't taken a few more bites before the benches thumped lightly, and a familiar voice piped up at his elbow. "Hey Fenris! How you doin', huh?" 

It was Sigrun, eyes and smile bright as ever. She had a bowl of the potage, as well as an entire roasted nug on a stick; he wasn't even sure where she'd gotten it, as it wasn't one of the items on order. Fenris swallowed a lumpy bite of barley, and grunted out "Fine."

Sigrun huffed. "Fine? One word is all I get?"

Fenris sighed. He did like Sigrun -- she was a kind person and an excellent Warden, and he was touched by her consistent efforts to draw him out. He was in no mood to talk, but he also did not wish to be cruel to her. "I was not injured in the last sortie. Therefore, I am as well as I ever am."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, anyway." Sigrun took a heaping spoonful of her potage, then a bite of her nug; when she next spoke, it was slightly muffled. "How's Hawk? I saw him limping on the way back. He got hurt?"

Fenris tensed slightly. "Yes."

"His leg?" Sigrun pressed.

"Yes." Fenris gritted his teeth, wishing for a moment that he had not resolved not to be cruel to Sigrun. It was only natural that in any conversation between griffon riders, their greatest shared interest would be in the health of the griffon; but he did not want to dwell further on Hawk's injury, the pain in his cry and the _crack_ the bone had made while being set.

"Where is he now?" Sigrun's blue eyes were wide, concerned. "Is he okay?"

Fenris sighed. "He is in the infirmary. The mage has healed him, but wishes to keep him close on hand."

"Ooh, I gotcha." Sigrun nodded, then added encouragingly, "Anders, huh? Anders will take good care of him, sweetie. He'll be fine. Anders treats griffons like they were his own kids."

"I am aware," Fenris drawled. As though any griffon rider who had dealt with Anders for more than five minutes at a time could possibly fail to be aware. Still, she meant it kindly, so… "...Thank you."

A throat-clearing from off to the side broke into their conversation. Fenris glanced up to see Nathaniel there, a trencher and a jug in his hands and a carafe balanced against his arm. He gave them both a courteous nod. "Good afternoon, Sigrun, Fenris. May I sit?

"Sure Nate!" Sigrun patted the bench beside her, aiming a beaming smile at the archer. "Plenty of room on the bench."

Nathaniel sat, revealing his plate to be filled with what looked like salt pork and fried beans. He offered the carafe to his seatmates; smelling slightly sour wine, Fenris shook his head. He had no wish to cloud his head tonight. Nathaniel poured for himself and for Sigrun, then asked, "How is Hawk, Fenris? I heard the news that he had been injured. My sympathies -- I don't know what I would do if Taliesen were hurt."

Fenris ground his teeth. "He is fine. He is being treated," he bit out, hoping that the dangerous tone of voice would declare the subject matter closed. 

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows slightly, but mercifully did not press the issue, instead digging into his own dinner without further comment. Fenris relaxed; Nathaniel at least understood the value of companionable silence. 

At least until a fourth figure plunked down on the bench beside Nate, bouncing it slightly as she let out a gusty sigh. As Bethany sat, her scarf fluttered and shifted, giving a brief glimpse of the livid white mark on her neck before she hastily readjusted the scarf to cover it. 

Honestly, Fenris didn't know why she bothered; it was not uncommon for Wardens to have a patch or patches of white somewhere on their body, a legacy of the Joining. Fenris' all-white head of hair was on the extreme end, but most Wardens had something. Oghren had an all-white beard, although the hair on his head was still a youthful red; Sigrun had a white patch on her cheek that bleached out the tattoos on that side; Nathaniel's white streak stood out against his dark hair. Even Anders had one white eye, though it didn't stop him from being able to see on that side. 

Bethany brought the usual stink of lightning and sulfur with her that clung to all mages post-battle; but since he was sure he didn't smell any too rose-like himself at the moment, Fenris did not comment on it. "Hello, Nate! Sorry I'm late," she said, then gave a sunny smile around the table. "Hi, Sigrun. Hi, Fenris! Where's Oghren?" 

"Why would I know?" Fenris said. 

Bethany rolled her eyes. "Why would you? You only fight together in the same wing, why wouldn't you know?" 

"I am not the dwarf's keeper," Fenris snorted. 

Sigrun made a face. "Do you really ever have to ask where Oghren is? He's probably asleep in the wine cellar. Again." 

"I was just being polite," Bethany said, the picture of injured dignity. "How's Hawk, Fenris? I heard --"

Fenris cut her off, raising his voice; he did not want to relive this conversation twenty times with the introduction of each new Warden to the conversation. "Can we talk about something else?!"

A brief, shocked silence ruled the table; Bethany leaned back, her hazel eyes wide. "...Oooookay," she said slowly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend."

"Whatever you say, sweetie," Sigrun told him, patting his hand, and then turned to address the mage. "Hey, Beth, we missed you during lunch! Where were you off to?"

"Nowhere really," Bethany shrugged as she ripped the hard crust of her roll to reveal the softer bread inside, then dipped it in her potage. "I just went to eat outside on the parapet. For a change of pace. I love you dearly," she addressed Nate, "but after spending the last day and night glued together, I could use a break."

"Understood," Nate murmured. "Likewise." Despite his words, he poured her a drink out of his carafe without asking, and she accepted with a smile full of dimples.

Sigrun perked up. "Ooo, did you go visit that other Warden you've got your eye on? Seb- Sebastian?"

Bethany sputtered into her mug. "I do not 'have my eye on him,' Sigrun!" she exclaimed.

Sigrun grinned, bouncing on her bench a trifle. "But you said you think he's _hot,"_ she teased, doing a (poor) impression of Bethany's voice.

"So he is," Bethany defended herself. "That doesn't mean I'm interested in him, that just means I'm not _blind_. Or _dead."_

Sigrun sniffed. "Well, I _am_ dead, and I can tell you that from this height, mostly what he looks like is Andraste." 

Both of the girls burst into giggles, and despite his black mood Fenris felt a smile quirk his lips on one side as he remembered the lay-brother's distinctive taste in belt buckles. He was, like Nate, an excellent archer and a brother-in-arms, but his particular… _earnest_ personality made it tedious to take him too seriously sometimes.

Nathaniel looked deeply put-upon by this explosion of feminine amusement, and he cleared his throat again, louder this time. "So anyway," he said loudly, gesturing with a fork full of beans. "The darkspawn front has moved further into Orlais." 

Mention of the darkspawn sobered heads around the table quickly. "It's a shame about the town," Bethany said, and sighed. "So pretty. It's rubble now, I'm sure."

"There's little mercy in this world for pretty things," Fenris commented, and took up another of his goat kebabs.

"At least where the darkspawn are concerned," Sigrun said. "What is the emperor of Orlais even doing, huh?"

"Terribly," Fenris drawled. 

Another round of laughter went around the table, and this time even Nate smiled. "Well, Fenris isn't wrong," he said. "From what I've heard, Kordillus II is losing ground to the Darkspawn on all fronts. Even the land which isn't being overrun with the Blight is giving him trouble. There's rebellions in Ghislain and Alyons, and several cities in the Free Marches are threatening to break away entirely."

"That seems like folly to me," Fenris said. "Monsters at their doorstep, and they want to squabble amongst themselves?"

Nathaniel shrugged. "Their complaint is that if Orlais is not able to protect them --"

" Which it's not. Orlais can't even protect itself!" Bethany interjected. 

" -- then they should be able to keep all their resources to defend themselves, not have it frittered away in taxes and levies," Nathaniel continued. "They ask why they should pay for nobles in Val Royeaux to dress in fine silks and build elegant towers while the wolves are baying at their door."

"I suppose that makes sense," Sigrun said doubtfully. 

"Des Gaulles, the general of the chevaliers, argues that they can present a better defense against the Blight if they work as a unified force, not a disparate collection of rag-tag armies," Nathaniel went on. "But it's hard for the border provinces to look past the extravagant lifestyles of the Val Royeaux nobility to accept that argument. 

"It would do a great deal for morale if Kordillus could curb their excesses, but he doesn't have the guts. He's afraid that if he tries to put a boot on their neck, they'll rise up in revolt, and he'll lose their backing as well. So the festivities go on, and more of Orlais leaks away at the border with every passing day." 

Bethany made a noise of disgust, and Fenris could only agree. At least the magisters of Tevinter, for all the depths of their depravity, took the encroaching Blight with the seriousness it deserved. They could hardly do otherwise, with Minrathous being swallowed by the darkspawn and every other city in Tevinter threatened under the same shadow --

Another tray clattered down on the table beside Fenris, opposite from Bethany, and a tall blond human stepped over the bench to plop down on it. "What are we talking about? Are we gossiping about Orlais?" Alistair said cheerfully. "You know I'm always up for talking shit about those poncy cheese-eaters." 

Bethany tsked. "You're one to talk, your own tray is half cheese!" she exclaimed. 

"Yes, but _this_ is good Alamarri goat white, none of that fancy slop the Orlesians eat," Alistair replied, unconcerned by his hypocrisy. "So, Fenris, how's Hawk? I heard from Riordan --" 

 _"He's fine!"_ chorused four voices from around the table, Fenris' not among them. Alistair rocked back, stunned and bemused. Fenris hoped dearly that he would take the hint, and drop the matter. 

They never had the chance to find out, for just then Sigrun elbowed him in the side, kicking Fenris under the table at the same time. "Hey, hey!" she said, her voice a hissing whisper. "Look! Look over there!" 

Chatter around the table fell silent, and all heads obediently turned to follow Sigrun's intent gaze. A group of Wardens had walked into the dining hall, keeping pace with each other despite their disparate heights, and all conversation near them fell quiet as they did. 

There was an aura about them, a certain halo of grim purpose that seemed to set them apart from the rest of the room; the other Wardens made way for them respectfully as they passed, even though three of the group were elves. One had the elaborate facial tattoos of the Dalish, and carried an unstrung bow slung across her chest; another had a staff strapped to his back. Another staff was carried by the human woman, her male companion carrying his sword and shield even into the dining hall. Two dwarves filled out the complement; one with a bushy dark beard and a fine, expensive-looking broadsword, and the other a red-haired woman with a pair of jagged knives and a square tattoo bracketing her eye. 

"It's the dragon brigade," Sigrun sighed, her voice almost dreamy. "Look at them, aren't they amazing? I'd give anything to be one of that squad, but they only take the best of the best." 

"Of course they do," Nathaniel said, giving her a quelling frown. "If they're going to seek out the Archdemon in mid-battle, they can only afford to take the absolute top fighters and casters with them. They can't afford any liabilities or dead weight." 

"I bet I could do it," Sigrun said, still staring at the dragon-killing squad longingly. "I bet I could. They say Brosca used to be a casteless, like me." 

"Honestly, if any of us were to get on that squad, it would probably be Fenris," Bethany said brightly. "I mean, they often recruit from the Falcons, don't they? You guys get more front-line combat experience than almost anyone." 

"Mm," Fenris grunted, directing more of his attention to shredding the leafs of his cabbage than to the other Wardens. 

"Don't you _want_ to be a dragon-killer, Fenris?" Sigrun said with surprise. "Imagine it -- you'd have a shot at killing the Arch-demon itself! You'd be a hero! Practically a Paragon! They'd write songs and -- and build statues about you!" 

"You'd be dead," Fenris replied. "All the songs and statues in Thedas seem a poor trade for that." 

"But that is our duty, is it not?" Nathaniel said quietly. "Your death for the Archdemon's death, and the end of the Blight -- for all the world."

"And besides, it's not like you'll live forever anyway," Alistair added. "Not as a Warden. If the darkspawn don't get you sooner, then the Taint will get you later." 

"Why hurry to meet it, then?" Fenris said. 

"Because -- well -- that's the point, isn't it?" Bethany said. "That's why the Wardens exist, why we do what we do. All of this -- even the griffons -- they really exist just to give us that one chance to meet the arch-demon in the air and end it. If it comes to it, all of our lives, all of our griffons' lives are just a means to an end." 

For a moment, the table was quiet and still. Abruptly Fenris stood, shoving the bench back from the table. "I am finished," he announced.

"Are you sure?" Bethany's eyes were wide. "You've hardly made a dent in your plate."

"I am sure," Fenris said shortly. "Excuse me; I'll be in the infirmary."

"The infirmary?" Sigrun said with surprise. "Not the dormitories?"

"No," Fenris said. He managed a nod to the rest of the Wardens at the table, struggling to at least retain a veneer of courtesy to his fellows. "And good night."

 

* * *

 

Fenris' footsteps, on the way back to the eyrie, were slow and heavy. It wasn't actually that late at night; the sun had gone down over the horizon, on the far side of the Rift, but there was still a blue tinge to the sky in the west. But with all the events of the last few days -- and today -- Fenris felt like it should have been much later. 

By the time he got back to the eyrie it was empty and dark; Velanna was gone, and there was no sign of Anders. Justice opened his eyes briefly when Fenris entered, but closed them again without comment. 

He made his way carefully through the darkened infirmary, careful not to trip or catch himself, until he found the niche where Hawk was sleeping. Feeling like he was aching in every bone, in every scar, Fenris crawled up onto the pallet beside him and snuggled up against the thick ruff of feathers in his chest. 

It wasn't like he didn't know that the whole purpose of the griffon riders -- the whole purpose of the Wardens -- was to kill the archdemons. Whatever other tactical uses they could be put to in the meantime, waiting for their day to come, that was what they were for. Fenris knew it, and yet at the same time he'd had more than enough of existing _for_ something. For a person, a purpose… or a sacrifice.

Fenris saw no reason to glorify death, let alone go chasing it. It would come, sooner or later, whether you went looking for it or not -- and sooner for those who fell in love with it. Fenris had seen far too many deaths to have any illusions about its nobility. If death was all he wanted, there had been plenty of chances for it to claim him already -- but instead he had fought and scraped and clawed and struggled to live. And now, he had more than ever to live for. 

With that thought in mind, Fenris shuffled his position until he lay against the curve of Hawk's side, one arm tucked into the warm crook of the griffon's elbow. Weariness tugging at every joint and bone, he closed his eyes.

 

* * *

  


Fenris woke before dawn; the wall was open to the east, and the first spears of light from the sunrise streamed in uninhibited. He grumbled a bit under his breath as he slowly sat up, but he was not truly sorry to wake: Hawk was warm and fluffy, but the awkward sleeping position had left Fenris with a monstrous crick in his neck and ache in his spine.

He stood and slowly began stretches to try to restore some ease of movement. The aches of yesterday's battle, barely noticed at the time, had set in with a vengeance. Still, he had gotten off lightly compared to Hawk. 

Once he had completed the first set of stretches, Fenris went to check on his griffon. Hawk still slept soundly, even when Fenris crouched next to him on the pallet and examined his foreleg. It looked healthy -- straight and sound, claws digging in slightly to the mattress with straw ends poking out of the holes. Hawk didn't even react when Fenris ran his fingers over it, except to let out a voiceless chittering in his sleep and then roll away onto his back, stretching his front legs in the air. 

Fenris couldn't help but smile, and that smile was still on his face when a scuffle of leather on stone caught his attention. He looked up to see Anders wander into the infirmary. The mage had a sour expression on his face as he entered, but he stopped when he took in the sight of them: Hawk rolling luxuriously on his back and Fenris crouched beside him. A soft smile touched his face, and he shook his head. 

Fenris straightened up, smoothing the silly smile carefully away from his face, and nodded. "Good morning, mage," he said. 

"Good morning, Fenris," Anders replied, courteous enough. The sentence was punctuated at the end by a huge yawn, and the man's motions as he moved about the infirmary were sluggish. By the looks of it, he'd gotten less -- or worse -- sleep than Fenris had. "I was about to get some elfroot tea on, if you'd like some." 

Elfroot tea would certainly sooth his aches; but why did Anders need it? For that matter, why didn't he just use his healing magic on himself? "Bad night?" he asked solicitously. 

Anders grimaced. "Spent most of it nursing Neville through an infection," he said, referring to one of the griffons from another platoon, one Fenris didn't know but by name. "Once it set in, it spread rapidly. Healing magic couldn't keep it back. It was all I could do to keep Neville fighting, while we mixed a potion to clean the insult. Thank the Maker for Velanna's smelly secrets, is all I can say." 

Fenris frowned. "Was the griffon injured in yesterday's battle?" he said. "Not Blight sickness, surely? I thought that there was no cure." 

Anders frowned even more stormily. "No, burn and blight it! Not even battle, just bloody carelessness. Neville's rider had left his harness on him, day and night, for damn near a week. Apparently thought it was _too much trouble_ to take it off at night when she'd just have to put it back on him in the day. So the damn thing rubbed his skin raw, and then broke the skin, and rubbed whatever dirt and fungus into the wound as well. And then _she_ had the nerve to try to claim it was darkspawn blood, as though anyone with working eyes couldn't look and see exactly what had happened! Blasted, lazy, selfish, clod-headed…" 

Every word was punctuated with a clatter as Anders went about stacking his cups and mortars with savage ferocity. Fenris could agree with the sentiment, if not the strength of it. Anders whirled around, an angry scowl contorting his otherwise handsome face. "I'm so tired, I might just leave it to Velanna to tear strips out of his rider. Or maybe even let Justice do it! I swear to Andraste, my job caring for the griffons would be so much better if they didn't all have _riders._ " 

Although he knew, consciously, that Anders' temper was not directed at him Fenris couldn't help the small flinch at the other man's wrath. He cleared his throat to be sure he had command of his voice and said, "Shall I clear out of your way, then?" 

"What?" Anders looked up and blinked, as though he'd temporarily forgotten Fenris' presence. "No, no. I don't mean _you._ You're one of the few who does it right." His scowl softened, a bit more of the warm light returning to his eyes as he glanced up at Hawk. "You take such good care of him, I know I can always count on you. You… always put such care into everything you do, Fenris. It's something I always admired about you." 

Fenris blinked too, taken aback by the unexpected compliment. An unexplained lump rose up in his throat, and when he next spoke his voice had a small squeak to it. "Truly?" he said. 

Anders nodded. "Yes, Fenris. I… I thought you knew that, that I admired you, at least." He turned all of his attention, apparently, to sorting and putting away his medicine dishes, studiously watching his hands. 

Fenris' eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "Are you telling me that you have emotions about real people, and not just for griffons?" he said. 

Anders half-grinned, half-grimaced. "Yeah, yeah. Don't tell anyone, though; I've got a reputation to maintain." 

Fenris didn't know how to answer that. While it had never been any secret that Anders' regard was reserved for griffons, and that he approved of people only insofar as they shared his regard, it had never occurred to him that Anders might actually have feelings for him -- or for anyone who went on two legs, for that matter. He had resigned himself to his own admiration from afar. 

For all his sharp tongue and ferocious temper, Fenris had learned over the years that Anders was one of the most gentle men -- and certainly the most gentle of mages -- that he'd ever met in his life. If he seemed fierce it was only because he cared so deeply, and because he wore his heart on his sleeve, without guile or dissimulation. There were all too few men in the world like that; perhaps that was why Anders chose to give his heart to animals, instead. 

The griffons, after all, adored Anders and did not hesitate to show it, all the more purely because they lacked the words. For a moment, Fenris envied that uninhibited frankness. 

But at the same time, who was he to offer… his heart, or his feelings, or any other part of him? A Warden, dedicated to the cause of the Wardens with all that he was, up to and including his life. He was not certain how much he had left over to offer to any lover… and, in all honesty, not sure how much of himself Anders had left over to offer anyone either. 

Still… perhaps he was overthinking it. Fenris cleared his throat again, more to cover the awkward silence than out of need. "If you have been up all night, I take it you haven't eaten breakfast?" he asked. 

Anders turned around, looking surprised. "No, not yet," he said. "Why?" 

"Perhaps I could fetch a pair of trays from the dining hall, and we could… share a meal, out on the balcony," Fenris offered. "It is early and quiet yet, and it looks like it will be a fine morning." 

Anders looked taken aback, but then his features softened a bit. They did that often, Fenris realized for the first time, when looking at him. "I'd like that," he said quietly. "I'd like that very much." 

Fenris came back with the trays, fresh-baked bread from the kitchens jostling for space on the trays with bacon and ham steaks. Breakfast at the Keep was always better than dinner, as long as you got there early enough to catch the day's first rising. He balanced a pair of mugs in one hand, the hard cider with in a little strong for this time of morning, but there weren't many other options. 

Anders traded him a mug of elfroot tea for the tray, which he accepted with obvious delight; if he'd really been up all night, it was no wonder he was ravenous. Even more ravenous than Wardens were at any time, that is. Fenris took his own tray out through the wide stone arches onto the landing, a wide platform of smooth flagstones with no railing, looking out over the Western Approach. On the other side of the basin, the sun was just beginning to crest over the edge of the mountains. 

They ate in relative quiet, enjoying the cool morning air and the vista before them. More than once Anders reached over to take a choice piece of bread or bacon from Fenris' tray, a teasing smile or quirk of eyebrow asking permission as he did. Fenris allowed the theft, and returned it; in the process their hands brushed together, which was the real point after all. 

"So, mage," Fenris said as they relaxed on the wide steps to the landing. The stone was still cold from the night, but the sunlight was warming. "If it is not too intrusive… may I ask a question?" 

Anders took a bite, and gave him a crooked smile. "You can ask, sure," he said. "If it's something I don't want to answer, I won't." 

Fenris nodded understanding, and searched for the best way to ask. "Your magic," he said at last. "I've seen you use it to heal the griffons. Actually, I've seen you use it to perform amazing feats with the griffons, to practically bring some back from the dead. But I've never seen you use it on a person." 

Anders' face went blank, his eyes shuttering. He nodded, but didn't speak. 

Fenris went on. "I suppose… what I don't understand, I am not learned in magic. But I had never heard of a healing gift that was so specific, that it could be used on animals but not on humans. Is that… common?" 

"No," Anders said, so softly that Fenris could hardly hear him. "No, you're right. It… didn't always used to be this way. When I was younger, I was… normal, as normal as mages can be, anyway. I was a regular spirit healer." 

"And you came to heal griffons later?" Fenris hazarded. Anders nodded once. "What… happened?" 

Anders stayed silent for a while, chewing slowly as he stared off into the air. The sunrise was beautiful despite the barren landscape, a subtle gradation of blues and greens near the horizon that turned the few wispy clouds to white-gold. 

"I'll tell you," he said at last, "because I'd like you to know. But I'd appreciate it this story didn't go any further." 

"Of course not," Fenris said immediately. He might listen to gossip in the Keep's canteen, but that didn't mean he spread it. 

"My magic manifested late," Anders began at last. "I grew up in a little town called Tallo -- had you heard of Tallo? I'd be surprised if you had, it's a little back end of nowhere town in the Anderfels. Near the Tevinter border. One road of buildings and a feed store, more or less. Its biggest claim to fame was being the home of Seeker Aldren." 

Fenris frowned. "I feel like I have heard that name before," he said. 

Anders flashed him an unfelt smile. "I'm not surprised," he said. "Aldren was one of the heroes from the old Inquisition, a great demon-hunter and maleficar-slayer. After the Accord, he left the Order and retired to obscurity -- or to Tallo, which was basically the same thing. 

"But he didn't retire completely. He still fancied himself an Inquisitor, even once the Inquisition was abolished, and made it very much his business to keep his patch of the countryside in order. Rumors of demons, wild animals, bandits, rogue mages from Tevinter…" Anders made a vague gesture with his hands, raising his elbows and pinching his claws like lobsters; Fenris was not at all sure exactly what wild beast or demon he was trying to emulate. "You name it, he'd go looking for it. It was dangerous work, of course. He didn't have the Inquisition's backing any more, and he'd get beat up and cut up and singed and what have you all the time." 

He paused for a moment, staring down at the ground, hands clasped together. At last he let out a little chuckle. "And then I turned up. A mage, on his very doorstep, blessed by the power of the Maker to heal? Well. It was a sign, obviously. He decided that I was Maker-sent to be his helper, and took me." 

Fenris greatly misliked the sound of that. "Took you?" he said. 

Anders nodded. "My parents didn't object," he said. "Or, well, my mother did, but no one listened to her. My father was glad to wash his hands of me. There was still a long and ugly memory in that part of the Anderfels of Tevinter control, of Tevinter magisters. Mages aren't well thought of there, not even healers like me. 

"So he took me for his own, took me as his own personal servant or, or commissary, I guess. Me, I wanted no part of it -- I was unruly even then, wild and full of rebellious ideas. Comes of being born so close to the rebellion, maybe. Aldren called me insolent, sinful, tried to beat it out of me. Among other things." Anders frowned, his face pinched with whatever memory he was seeing. "Didn't work." 

Anders stared at his hands, shredding a piece of bread into smaller and smaller crumbs. "He said that it was the demon in me that made me rebel, made me resist doing the Maker's work. Maybe he even believed that, or maybe it was just an excuse for him to do what he would have done anyway. I don't know. Everyone else believed it, though. 

"I became a pariah in Tallo. My old friends ran from me, or spat on me in the street, or threw stones. Neighbors I'd known my whole life shunned me, called down prayers when I was nearby. After about a year of this I tried to run." Anders gave a hollow laugh. "Running and hiding from the hero of the Inquisition, who knew the country for three marches around like the back of his hand. You can imagine how well that went." 

Fenris sat bolt upright, feeling a sudden twinge of sympathy so strong it was almost physical pain. He knew all about running. And about being caught afterwards. 

"That was the first time, but it wasn't the last," Anders went on. "I kept trying to run, and he'd keep on bringing me back. After the third time, he tried to keep me in line by putting a harness on me," Anders drew a finger around his throat, describing the line of the collar, "and keeping it clipped to the post of his tent. He threatened to break my legs if I didn't behave myself. I told him I'd just heal them back up again. He said he'd… well. I kept trying, and he kept stopping me, and every time around it got worse and worse. But I didn't give up. I wouldn't be chained to him for the rest of my life." 

"How did you get away?" Fenris asked quietly. Anders looked up at him, startling slightly, as though he'd forgotten Fenris was there.

 "It ended when I was sixteen. Aldren had been out fighting… I'm not sure. Something that used fire, so it might have been rogue mages; but if you know what the wildlife is like up in Anderfels, it doesn't let out that he was fighting beasts, you know. 

"Anyway, they brought him in to me, and he was… horribly burned, really. All up and down one side, with huge gouges on his chest and stomach." Anders shuddered at the memory. "Maker, I can still remember the way he stank. The way his skin was… flaking off, in black clumps like scales, and the liquid that oozed out from underneath." 

"He was… dead?" Fenris ventured. 

Anders smiled, the grimmest Fenris had seen him do it yet. "No," he said. "Not then. Not yet. But it was clear that he was going to be, soon. It had happened before: he'd go out and get burnt up, or cut up, and come back, and I'd heal him back up to snuff. This wasn't the first time he'd been hurt that badly, so I knew that I could do it, that I could heal him. And I…" 

Anders took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly, with a quaver at the end. "I didn't." 

Fenris waited a beat for the rest of the sentence, before the meaning of it sank in. "Oh," he said. 

Anders closed his eyes, and the morning light played across his face. "They tried to make me. Hit me, screamed at me, shoved me forward until my nose was almost in his chest cavity. Called me, oh, all sorts of things, threatened horrible tortures if I didn't save him. But I didn't. For that moment, the power was in my hands. And I opened my hands and I let him die. 

"Ser Aldren, the great Hero of the Anderfels… wheezed out his last breath on the town square, shat himself right there on the cobblestones. The end of a legend. And I wasn't… I wasn't sorry. I'm still not." 

Fenris swallowed. "I don't see," he said, stopping for a breath in the middle, "how anyone could blame you for that." 

"Oh. Don't you?" Anders let out a rusty chuckle. "The villagers didn't seem to have any trouble with it. They went right mad, nearly tore me apart on the spot. Clapped me in chains, determined to hang me for a maleficar. The only thing that saved me was that they couldn't decide just what the charge was. Even in the Anderfels it's not a crime to _not_ do magic, you know? 

"Anyway," and for the first time in this whole tale Anders' face lightened a degree. "They were still squabbling over that when Duncan came through Tallo on a regular patrol, and saw what was going on. Conscripted me on the spot. Best thing that could have happened to me, really. Even with the drinking darkspawn blood and all the, you know, horribleness."

"It's no surprise that he would," Fenris remarked. "Not only a mage but a spirit healer? That would be a great asset to the Wardens." 

"It should have been," Anders said. He closed his eyes against the fierce morning rays. For the first time in this whole conversation, tears were running down his cheeks, turned to molten gold by the sunlight. "I couldn't! I couldn't, I just couldn't. Not after what I'd done. The Maker gave me a gift, and I… I defiled it. I spat in His face. How could I ever heal again?" His voice broke.

His distress, though obvious and painful, confused Fenris. Why was he so anguished? It wasn't even as though he had used his magic to kill a man. Fenris would -- and had -- made a much more active effort to strike back at his own master, when he'd been run down. And Anders had even said that he wasn't sorry. So why the grief? 

Anders rubbed his face on the sleeve of his coat, leaving red abrasions on his cheeks. "I couldn't," he said lowly, regaining command of his voice once more. "I mean that, it's not just me being dramatic for once. I _tried._ When we passed through another town on the way back to the Keep, before my joining… there was a woodcutter there who'd been injured, and I offered to heal him in return for his hospitality that night and I -- I just couldn't do it. I reached for my magic, and nothing _happened._ I was sure then that the Maker had taken back His gift, as punishment." 

Fenris wasn't sure he believed that; he'd known a lot of magisters, after all. He wasn't sure he even believed that magic was granted by the Maker in the first place; but if it was, and He stripped His gift in punishment from those who misused it for evil, then there would have been a lot fewer mages in Tevinter. 

"But you _can_ still heal," Fenris insisted. "You -- you heal the griffons." 

"Yes." Anders sniffled, and smiled at the mention of the griffons, like sun breaking through the clouds. "Yeah. That came later, after we got to the Keep… After my Joining. 

"It was just a coincidence, a stupid accident, that one of the little griffon hatchlings got hurt. Ran out in the courtyard, got trampled by a spooked horse -- stupid little thing. His skull was nearly crushed -- they're fragile at that age, you know. I knelt in the courtyard and I held him in my arms, and… and I felt my magic come back, for the first time since Aldren died. I never thought I'd feel that again, but I healed that little griffon, and I knew then -- I knew then what the Maker meant for me to do." 

He teared up again, but these looked like happy tears, in contrast. "The griffons are… the griffons are just so good, aren't they? Pure and innocent, loyal and brave. I -- really believe that they're the Maker's gift to us, you know. His second great gift, a chance for us to redeem ourselves, to fix the way we screwed up the first time. Our chance to kill the Archdemon and fix the Blight, and make the world right again -- our one chance to pick ourselves up off this blighted world and soar. I don't -- I just don't get why other people don't see that. I don't understand why other people don't see how important they are." 

Fenris patted his shoulder, unsure what to say. On one hand, he was inclined to agree with Anders about the importance of griffons in the war against the darkspawn, and their general superiority to most humans he'd known. On the other hand, Hawk had once managed to consume an entire bucket of paint, including the bucket. If he really represented the Maker's last chance for mortals, then the Maker had a very strange sense of humor.

"You care so much for them," was what he said eventually. "Enough to make up for any number of dung-headed Warden recruits. You give them all your time, all your energy, all your care. You try so hard. I'm sure the Maker would be pleased, if He really is watching." 

Anders nodded, although his expression fell again. It didn't take a blood mage to guess at the direction of his thoughts, the still-bleeding wound of his adolescence and the death of the man who'd made those years a torment. 

Fenris wasn't entirely sure what to say, what comfort he could offer. He wished Anders to know that he was not alone in his pain, that others had endured similar trials and survived them. He wanted Anders to know that he understood what it felt like to be used, to be abused, to be reduced to a thing for the use of others. But he couldn't think of any way to speak of it that wouldn't come out sounding like 'Well, maybe you thought your life was bad, but I was literally a slave who had molten metal branded into my skin and then ripped out again when I no longer pleased my master.'

He didn't want to turn this into some kind of contest, the winner being he who bore the most scars. That was not a prize he cared for. Nor did he want to burden Anders with his own troubles, when he was so freshly reliving his own. Another day, perhaps, if Anders wanted to hear it. For today, he reached down and took Anders' hand in his own, and searched his heart for what he wanted Anders to know. 

"I'm glad you got away from him," Fenris said at last. 

Anders sniffed, then nodded. "Me too," he said. 

"I'm glad he's dead," Fenris added, watching his face carefully. 

"Me too," Anders said, almost a whisper, head hanging down. 

"And..." Fenris took a deep breath, squeezing Anders' hand tightly in his own. "I'm glad you're here now." 

Anders looked up at him, and smiled that watery smile. "Yeah," he said. "Me too." 

He leaned into Fenris' shoulder, the weight of him not too crushing despite his height; he was as light-boned as the griffons he tended. They sat together like that in the courtyard for a long time, watching the morning rise.

 

* * *

 

~tbc...


	4. The Western Approach

 

Days passed into weeks, time ran on at Griffon Wing Keep, and Fenris and Anders continued their shy courtship. It inspired much amusement from the other Wardens, but their ribbing was good-humored enough, and Fenris mostly ignored it. Bethany sighed over them being terribly romantic, Sigrun called them 'cute.' Nathaniel was quietly pleased for him, and Alistair tried to give him advice so bad that Fenris was three-quarters sure it was actually an elaborate practical joke. Even Oghren apparently noticed, going by the toast he raised in the dining hall with a flagon of mead for "finally getting yer nug-lickin' heads out of yer asses and gettin' a move on." 

But despite all the encouragement, progress was slow. Part of it was because Anders' work kept him so busy -- he made it clear that he would not, and Fenris did not expect him to, neglect any of his duties in the eyrie or the infirmary to care for the griffons. Fenris spent more time with Hawk, working to train him back up to condition after his injury: the big griffon seemed almost smug about Fenris and Anders' new understanding. At the least, he seemed to be pleased at the opportunity to spend more time in the infirmary with Anders. 

It wasn't only Anders' busy schedule that slowed things, though. Fenris had little idea how people were supposed to court; he had only scattered and hazy memories of his childhood and life in Tevinter, none of which had been a good role model for anything. Mostly he just tried to be in Anders' presence more, to take meals to him or sit with him or talk quietly out on the stone landing of the eyrie. For him, for now, that was enough. 

Perhaps in time he would want more. But there was something holding Anders back, a hesitation that Fenris saw in his eyes sometimes that was almost more like fear.

The war against the Blight did not stop for them; more sorties against the darkspawn came and went, although Fenris' wing was not called on for any of them. One griffon was lost to Blight sickness, and Anders was inconsolable; he cried most of the night after putting the poor beast down and Fenris held him through it, having no words to offer but only his own presence. 

There was a tension in the Keep that was palpably rising, shared by every Warden; the griffons picked up on it as well, and irritability led to more than one eyrie squabble. Fenris felt it too, an itching at the back of his mind as though there were darkspawn about -- but there couldn't be, not here. Griffon Wing Keep had been built with care, and there were no entrances to the Deep Roads nearby, no stone tunnels for the Darkspawn to use to sneak up on them. The land was flat for miles around, visibility clear in the dry air, and the Keep posted watches at all hours of the night and day. The darkspawn could not possibly be near. 

But if they weren't near, then how many of them must be gathering afar, for their presence to leave such a stain in the air? 

At last the tension broke. Fenris heard a shout from the watchmen posted on the walls: "Rider coming in from Adamant! News from Adamant!" 

Fenris dropped what he was doing and rushed out into the courtyard, joined with what looked like half the population of the Keep. They crowded together, jostling, but were careful to leave plenty of space for the griffon to descend, backwinging to slow its drop as its feet touched the courtyard stones. 

Fenris didn't recognize the rider -- a tall burly human with black hair combed back from his face, a flowing mustache that ran down and disappeared into a massive, bushy black beard. The drooping lines of his mustache would have made him look dour at any time, Fenris thought; but as he dismounted from his griffon and handed his courier pouch to the waiting Clarel, he looked especially grim. 

"News from Adamant," the black-haired warden reported, every Warden in the courtyard straining to hear his gruff voice. "Darkspawn have been massing in the mountains, and they're starting to move." 

"Where to?" Clarel asked, even as she took the message pouch and cracked it open, frowning as she scanned the contents. 

The courier smiled grimly. "Here," he said. A ripple of reaction flowed through the crowd, but he wasn't done with his news yet. "The Archdemon leads the charge." 

The ripple became a shock, and Fenris saw Clarel's eyes widen as she inhaled deeply. Burning hope, burning fear -- the Archdemon had not shown itself in over a year. "Tell Adamant we come," she told the courier, then wheeled about to face the crowd. "Wardens, make ready!" she cried. "Every man and woman get your arms! We leave none behind. Today, we face the Archdemon in the sky!" 

Pandemonium gripped the courtyard as every Warden broke for their post -- yet despite the noise and shouting, it was an ordered dispersal, not a chaotic one. Hope and fear filled the Keep from wall to wall, every Warden thrilled by the prospect of ending the Blight at last. 

A chill went through Fenris' limbs, slowing his steps. If every capable Warden was turning out for the battle to come… 

He made his way swiftly to the infirmary, though his steps were slowed by the chaos that had overtaken the fortress, every Warden running for their gear and their griffon and their post. By the time he got to the round stone tower abutting the eyries, Justice was already in his war gear: saddled, armored, and with the fire of righteous vengeance burning in his cold blue eyes.

Anders was standing in the infirmary as Fenris entered, fixing the buckles on his armor. It was the first time Fenris had ever seen him in full battle gear, and as much as trepidation chilled his heart, the sight still filled him with affection and pride. The man he'd chosen to love was a warrior, as well as a healer, and he loved him for both in equal measure. 

A set, determined frown was on Anders' face, which melted into a look of surprise as he glanced up and saw Fenris. "Well," he said, and cleared his throat conspicuously. "Guess it was time for me to get some use out of all this gear, huh?" 

"Anders," Justice said, swinging his head around to pin the mage with a disapproving glare. "You should not go into battle with these words unsaid." 

Anders faltered. He glanced at Fenris and then quickly away. "I don't know what you mean," he said nervously. 

"Yes, you do." Justice rose to all fours and padded past the two men, the tips of his wings brushing Fenris' side as he passed by him. "I will guard the door, to give you the time that you need together. But be aware, all time in the mortal realm runs out. Say what you must say, as you may not have the chance again." 

Anders glared half-heartedly after Justice, muttering something unflattering under his breath. Justice had to duck and flatten his wings to get through the door, even made griffon-size as it was; his bulk completely filled the portal, blocking them off from the world. 

Fenris knew it wouldn't last. In the chaos of a full-scale mobilization, he knew that it wouldn't matter if he was delayed from reaching his post by a matter of seconds, or minutes, as they would not move until everyone was ready. Minutes, they had minutes together. But not hours. Not days, or years, or a lifetime… 

When Fenris looked back at Anders, he was startled to see that the older man's eyes were sheening with tears, his expression full of hurt. Instinctively Fenris stepped forward, moving into Anders' space until he could feel the heat of the other man even through his layers of armor. Fenris raised one hand and softly traced a tear down Anders' cheek, a silver trail from that silver eye. "Why this?" he asked quietly. 

"I could lose you," Anders whispered brokenly. "They wouldn't call for an all-out mobilization unless… It's going to be bad. You could be hurt, and I wouldn't be able to heal you… or I might not even be there. I might not know until it was all over, and I'd look for you, but you'd be gone." 

"Anders…" Fenris started, but Anders cut him off with a quick shake of his head. 

"This was why I was afraid to…" Anders trailed off, biting his lip. 

"Afraid to what?" Fenris asked. He slid a hand around to Anders' back, pressing in against his heat. Anders did not raise his arms to embrace him back, but he did lean into the touch. "Afraid to be with me?" 

Anders nodded. "If you care about someone… they can hurt you," he whispered. "Love makes you vulnerable. It's a weakness that fate can turn against you. I tried to hold back… but that just makes it worse. You could die today." 

"So could you," Fenris said. 

"Me? I'll be fine," Anders said with a snort. "I'll have Justice, way up in the air. Nowhere safer." 

"If the Arch-Demon takes to the field, then the air will be no safer than the ground," Fenris pointed out. "And while Justice is formidable, I doubt even he could stand up against a high dragon. I could lose you, just as easily as you could lose me. But I believe we will not." 

"Even if…" Anders took a deep breath. "Even if we both survive this battle, what about the next one? Even if we win this war today, we still can't leave the Wardens. Even if we could, we still can't leave behind the Taint. We'll never have a life together, never grow old in some little cottage out in a farm in the Free Marches." He shook his head, the motion spilling more tears from his eyes. "What kind of a life could we have together?" 

It seemed to Fenris that Anders was grieving for the crushed dreams of the future as much as he feared to grieve for Fenris himself. Strange; born and raised as a slave, he never had such dreams of a happy ending to begin with, so their impossibility did not bother him. 

"If an hour is all we have together, then that's all the more reason we should seize that hour," he said. "If we are to die today, it should be with no regret in our hearts." 

"I'm afraid it's too late." Anders looked down, avoiding Fenris' eyes. "I'm afraid I ruined things by waiting so long." 

"No. You haven't." Fenris reached up and tucked his fingers under Anders' chin, raising his head so he could meet his gaze. "I'll find you when the battle is over, and we'll take the time then."

"You can't be certain of that," Anders insisted, though there was a yearning in his voice. 

"I have never been more certain of anything," Fenris said.

Anders sighed. It was clear that he wanted to believe Fenris, that he longed to share in his faith in the future, but he was having trouble doing so. "Fenris…" he started to say, but now it was Fenris' turn to cut him off. 

"We cannot promise each other eternity together, nor that we will together grow old," Fenris said. "We cannot promise that we will see the end of this war in our lifetimes, nor that we'll ever find a home, or build a life together. But this one thing I can promise: That when this battle is over, I will see you again." 

Anders met his eyes at last, one white, one gold. There was that familiar softening in them, the look Fenris had only over time come to learn to see. "Then… I'll see you again, too," he murmured. 

At last he circled his arms around Fenris' chest, leaning into him with his chin tilting down, and Fenris was able to draw him down into a kiss.

 

* * *

 

The Darkspawn poured across the wastes, disorganized and relentless; from a distance they looked like a black stain oozing across the ground, some spilled organic liquid. They came on fast, but the Wardens were ready and waiting for them: after a lifetime of war, living on a hair-trigger, they could ready themselves for battle in the turn of a glass. 

Hawk crowed and muttered his impatience, his desire to join the fight and rip into the ranks of the enemy. Fenris placed a hand on his neck, calming him. "All in good time, my friend," he said softly. "There will be darkspawn blood enough for us all by the time the day is done." 

Fenris glanced over across the lines, the ranks of griffons standing ready and restless for the order to launch. He saw them all, his friends and brothers: Nathaniel and Bethany together, Oghren on his foul black griffon, Sigrun looking so tiny on the back of her red ones. Even Velanna was there, standing in the ranks of the infantry fighters beside Carver and Alistair, much to Fenris' surprise. He did not try too hard to puzzle out her role; there was another blond mage he cared for more. 

And there he was, near the front and center of the formation. Anders and Justice stood out against the ranks, the tall man and even taller griffon making the others around them look like children in comparison. Fenris only prayed that their size, and Justice's unmistakable spirit glow, wouldn't attract too much attention. Deadly attention. 

As close as they were amidst the massed ranks of Wardens, they were still too far to exchange any last farewells. Half a dozen griffons and their riders stood between them. Still, Fenris was able to catch Anders' gaze and hold it; the blond man smiled at him, that sunbeam smile, and mouthed something that Fenris could not quite catch. _Meet you after,_ he thought it was. Or maybe, _Make them suffer._  

Fenris had no fear, not for himself. He would not die today. He would live; he had more than ever to live for. 

And then there was no more time. The horn sounded, and the first ranks of griffons launched, a flurry of wings that blocked out all sight of the sky. Fenris tore his gaze from Anders, the sight of him in flight searing into his mind, and turned his eyes back to the war.

 

* * *

 

 

~the end.

**Author's Note:**

> A pin feather, sometimes called a "blood feather", is a developing feather on a bird. Unlike a fully developed feather, the pin feather has a blood supply flowing through it. As such, if the pin feather is damaged and the broken feather is not pulled and the bleeding staunched, a bird can be severely wounded from trauma to a blood feather.
> 
>  
> 
> This story ended up being a somewhat cut-down version of how I had initially envisioned it. The longer version would have been much more of a journey following Fenris as he goes from being a half-dead bargain bin slave to one of the Wardens’ top griffon fighters. It was going to focus much more on the plotline of nobody really communicating properly to Fenris what was going on around him, and his slow realization that the world is not as he thought it was.
> 
> There was going to be a much deeper examination of the themes of freedom, duty and obedience, the difference between slavery and conscription (which in the final draft gets reduced to a short dialogue between Duncan and Mhairi) and the eventual conclusion that in times of crisis, individual freedom cannot be the paramount virtue; and yet you have to draw the line somewhere, or in Anders’ words, you end up with a world not worth saving.
> 
> And there was going to be a plotline with bullying jerks in the Wardens who treated Fenris like a servant, and chaos and blood and feathers flying when he finally got fed up with that and snapped, and then his utter astonishment when the MPs actually listen to his side of the story instead of simply taking the word of the humans over that of an elf. And a scene where Fenris flies on his griffon’s back for the first time, and realizes there’s more than one kind of freedom.
> 
> Unfortunately, that all would have been too long for me to write in the time I ended up having, so I went with the condensed version that focused more on his life with the Wardens and his budding relationship with Anders.


End file.
